


Marigolds in the Hanged Man

by RedInkOfShame



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Post-Canon, Post-Trespasser, Slow Burn, Varigold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-07-26 08:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 43,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7567030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedInkOfShame/pseuds/RedInkOfShame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost twenty years ago, Varric Tethras fell in love with a woman of paragon skill. Since then he has met Wardens, Champions, and Inquisitors; First Enchanters, Magistrates, and mysterious apostates; Seekers, Templars, and the new Divine; two Red Jennys, several Qunari, and even a couple of demigods. After everything he's been through, what kind of woman would it take to win his heart anew?</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"This is the best tavern in Kirkwall. It could use some cute dwarven serving girls, but otherwise, it's perfect."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reluctant Viscount

**Author's Note:**

> I'm shocked that my first serial work isn't Solavellan, especially since I have 3 plotted out and 2 I'm brainstorming, but I just _need_ Varric to be happy. He's just... He's such a _**bro**_.

“This is an outrage! The Twins of Kirkwall are a part of our history, and a landmark of the city. They draw in much needed tourism revenue. They—”

“For every tourist that comes to see those big ugly things, a dozen businessmen avoid Kirkwall just so they don’t have to look at them,” Varric interrupted. “Have you stopped to look at them recently, Councilman? They’re depressing.”

“There are formalities. You can’t just—” Seneschal Bran interjected, trying to reason with his viscount.

“Too late! Already did it,” Varric said, throwing his hands in the air. “Or close enough, anyway. The workers have been hired, the buyers found, contracts signed. What’s done is done. We’ll keep the harbor chains for defense, of course, but the slave statues are gone. It’s time we stopped glorifying the whole ‘City of Chains’ angle.”

“We appreciate what you’re trying to do for the city, Master Tethras,” a councilwoman spoke up, “What you’ve done already. But with money finally coming in, we are not so desperate for funding that we need to sell off every available asset.”

“I’m the one that got the harbor and businesses up and running again, or did you forget why you lot volunteered me as viscount in the first place? It was because you want shit fixed, and I can do that.” Varric shook his head with a disgruntled laugh. “Look, we may be on our way to recovery, but there’s still a long way to go, and it hasn’t been cheap. There are debts that need to be paid off, sooner rather than later. And I, for one, won’t miss those bronze monstrosities being the first sight to welcome each boat into this city.”

Many mouths opened to speak at once, but Seneschal Bran’s voice rose above the others. “Perhaps we can table the matter for now,” he practically shouted, “and move on to the next subject on the agenda: the Kirkwall Circle tower.”

“I don’t think so.” Varric climbed off his chair and strode out of the assembly room, ignoring the clamboring voices left in his wake. He’d had more than enough for the day, he wasn’t about to start up the debate about what should be done with the prison that had held so many mages, not so long ago.

He made his way down the long hallway to the rest of the Viscount’s Keep, his keep, muttering to himself. “’Assets’? More like ‘eyesores’. Spooky, too. Am I the only one the least bit worried that they’ll come to life and rampage the city?”

He ignored the many people who tried to catch his attention as he headed for his suite. Bran would catch up with him shortly, and the seneschal was so very good at telling people to piss off. As he entered his office, a familiar sight met his eyes.

“Did you miss me, Bianca?” He asked of the large repeating crossbow that leaned against his desk, waiting for him. He couldn’t take her to council meetings— that would be a bit overtly threatening, even for him.

Running a loving hand down Bianca’s red cedar stock, Varric slung her on his back and made his way out. He didn't even make it halfway to the door of his suite before Bran’s voice could be heard outside, skillfully dismissing the same citizens Varric had ignored. Bran quickly made his excuses before entering the room, closing the door behind him and leaning against it, as if the crowd would surge their way through.

“You know you can’t actually do that without the Council’s approval.”

“Tell me, Provisional, which way would you vote?”

“A dangerous thing, taking sides. I avoid it wherever possible.”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day.”

“We still need to discuss the matter of—”

“Not going to happen.”

“You’ve received two more letters from the Merchants’ Guild—”

“Of course I did.” He didn’t know why his seneschal even bothered to mention them anymore—they both knew Varric was never going to read them. He stood in front of Bran, waiting for him to move out of the way so that he and Bianca could make their escape.

“Alright, that just leaves the matter of the marriage offer.”

“The what, now? Sorry, but you're not my type.”

Seneschal Bran made a face, but did not repeat himself. “From Comtesse Dulci de Launcet.”

“Huh. For one of her daughters, I assume? Makes sense, I suppose. The pair of them are so insufferable the comtesse would _have_ to resort to marrying them off to a dwarf.”

“Fifi or Babette, yes. What shall I tell the Comtesse?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

Bran nodded, having expected each curt answer he’d received. He started to move towards his own office, but hesitated. “Perhaps you ought to consider it, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Marrying a de Launcet? What have I ever done to you?”

Bran shook his head and clarified, “Marriage, I mean. To anyone. Maybe some gentle lass would calm your… Demeanor.”

Varric grunted. “You obviously hang out with a different type of woman than I do.” Varric had gotten to know many women in his travels, and he wouldn’t describe any of them as ‘gentle’. “Now move— I’ve got someplace to be.”

Bran didn’t look as if he believed him, but he walked off nonetheless, allowing Varric to make his escape. Varric headed straight to the chained off door a short distance to his right. The door led to a hallway, which led to a private building; his estate. Not for the first time, he thought about having them knock down the wall between his suite and this hallway, so he wouldn’t have to enter the main hall of the keep, exposing himself to the masses, just to get home.

~~~~~

That evening, just after sunset, Varric found himself in Lowtown for the first time in… Well, it had been a while. In his position as viscount he rarely left Hightown. Shit, he rarely left his keep. But with the Council breathing down his neck, the ever-present nagging of the Merchant’s Guild, and the distressing updates he’d been receiving from the elf-formerly-known-as-Inquisitor, he felt the need to haunt his former home. He wouldn’t have believed it at the time, but those years he spent living in the Hanged Man had been simpler days.

Entering the building felt right, but all wrong. Like coming home after a long trip to find someone has moved all your stuff. He noticed the changes immediately. The wooden floors remained the same, recently cleaned but still scuffed and bloodstained and missing large sections, but virtually every bit of the walls had been plastered over—most likely from necessary repairs due to the fires caused the night Anders screwed everything up. The plaster already looked old and dingy, as if it had always been there. The ever-present graffiti on the walls had been reapplied: the old Emerius heraldry, screaming slaves, and a small mural that looked suspiciously like Hawke.

He looked up as he crossed the floor. The rotting banners that hung from the ceiling had been replaced, though the new fabric wasn’t exactly fine Orlesian silk— they were hemp, rough and cheap, and looked as if the majority of them had somehow gotten dirty up there. All the chandeliers were lit, for once. Chains still hung down from the rafters.

The smell was just about right, too—still all ale and mystery meat stew, blood and sweat, but it seemed cleaner somehow. There was no lingering odor of stale vomit or piss, but there was the faint sting of smoke still hanging in the air; the owner had probably just covered over the fire damage, then, not bothering to replace the half-burned timbers in the walls.

This early in the evening the bar was pretty empty, and Varric was ignored as he headed upstairs, curious. Fresh air, or as fresh as air ever got this side of the Foundry, breezed in through the hallway windows that hadn’t been there before. From the looks of things, the hole in the wall had occurred naturally, so they’d just gone with it. The open ceiling, presumably used originally for slave deliveries or something, had been sealed. Debris that had piled up long before the fires had finally been cleared. The whole place smelled cleaner than any part of Lowtown had right to, and… Were those flower pots?

Maybe it had been a mistake to come here and ruin his memory of the place.

Unable to quell the urge, Varric continued his investigation. The door to his former suite was closed, and Varric left it alone, not knowing if someone else was currently residing there. Lucky bastard. The first door on the left was cracked open, though, and he peered in, not sure what to expect. This particular door had always been inaccessible before, so much dirt piled in front of it that it couldn’t be used.

Inside he found a small storage room, full of crates and supplies and the broom that was likely responsible for this hallway no longer smelling like dust and dirt.

With a grunt, he closed the door. Bracing himself for the worst, he crossed the hall to try the door of one of the group-rooms. Meant for anyone who had neither home nor coin, these rooms held multiple beds stacked together, quantity over comfort. Or, at least, they used to. He held a breath as he pushed open the door to find…

Exactly what he had hoped to find. Mismatched furniture, a handful of roughly-made bunkbeds, a table. ‘Desks’ made of stacks of crates, and ‘chairs’ made of empty casks. The only differences he could find were fresh candles, a new rug, and yet another clay pot of bright orange flowers.

He smiled, and felt himself relax. There were still drunkards downstairs, there was still graffiti on the walls, and there was still the vibe of criminal activity. This was still, as he always said, the best damned tavern in Kirkwall. All it needed were some cute dwarven—

“Oh, hello!” A dwarven serving girl exclaimed as she came around a corner. “Can I get you anything? An ale?”

Varric smiled.

It was perfect.


	2. On the House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Marigold~

Varric settled downstairs, sitting at a table in the corner. It had always been his favorite spot, and the best seat in the place; from here you could see the rest of the tavern, all the comings and goings, and your back was protected.

He had another reason to prefer this spot, now. The mural he noticed earlier turned out to be of Marian Hawke and her companions after all. Beside it hung a plaque boasting how this had been where she spent her downtime. And here, with his back to the wall, was just about the only place to sit where he couldn’t see the damn thing. After everything that happened and all the letters he’d had to write, even a clumsy painting of her face brought back painful memories.

He sat by himself, for tonight. He used to regularly garner a crowd, but for now he just wanted to enjoy the atmosphere. Besides, no one seemed to recognize him, and he didn’t recognize any of them. Or, at least, no one he wanted to talk to. He was content to sit alone, nursing an ale and watching the crowd. He began describing the people he saw in his head, putting their image into words; an old writing exercise he often used to pass the time.

Surprisingly, Corff was still there, behind the bar, doing inventory. He was getting older, and grizzly. _A haggard man, who had been through a lot in his life, and ignored most of it. He hadn’t shaved in at least a week, and probably hadn’t bathed in twice that. His stained, threadbare clothes were equally as bland as the expression he carried._

Even more surprisingly, Norah was still there as well. _The woman has worked as a waitress at a seedy tavern for two decades at least, now taking over as bartender. A job she would have for decades more, until she became old enough to burden her many fatherless children. She pulled her dark hair into a bun each morning, and wore a no-nonsense expression gained from endless shifts of lewd comments and having her bottom pinched. It would be unfair to guess at her age, given the hard life she’d lived._

And then there was the new girl. _A waitress, young and naïve, far too cheerful for a place like this. Either she wouldn’t last long, or her spirit wouldn’t. She had been working there long enough to anticipate when a grab or a grope was coming, and dodge it with impressive accuracy. However, she hadn’t been working there long enough to realize that the challenge was only encouraging the patrons to try again._

~~~

As the night wore on, the crowd grew larger and rowdier. The tavern filled with sounds of laughing and commiserating, joking and lying, card games and cheating. Someone was playing a lute, poorly. Varric was leaning back in his seat, one arm slung over the back of the chair and the other wrapped around his drink. He was listening to the under-the-table deals and catching up on the latest tales he’d been missing, filled with the same old familiar characters. He smiled to himself, but was careful not to laugh along—not everyone appreciated eavesdroppers around here.

He couldn’t help but chuckle, though, when the serving girl started chastising a handsy customer. “Now now, Joel,” she started sternly, wagging her finger as if disciplining a child. “We’ve talked about this!”

“Ah, Marigold, it’s all in good fun…” Joel answered, sullenly.

“Not for me, it’s not! I’ve got bruises!” When that caused the table to laugh, she switched to threats. “If you keep up like this, I’ll assume you’ve had too much and tell Norah to cut you off.”

“No, no need t’go doing that. I’ll stop, I’ll stop,” he promised.

“Alright, now, that’s better.”

“I hope you aren’t expecting a big tip with that attitude,” grumbled one of Joel’s drinking buddies.

“That’s rich coming from you, Ronauld! You never tip anyway!” She tossed the retort over her shoulder with a smile as she turned to leave, and the table had a raucous laugh at Ronauld’s expense. Her tone had made it sound like friendly teasing instead of criticism, and Ronauld was laughing along with the others.

_Her hair was copper and gold; fitting, seeing as how she brightened the room like candlelight. Her face held a light dusting of freckles, marking her as a surfacer. She had all the unmistakably dwarven features—the broad ears, the button nose, the cheeks that rounded whenever she smiled. Her jaw was soft, and her lips vulnerable. Her eyes were large and innocent and light…_ Something. Grey? Blue?

He must have been looking at her too closely as he tried to figure out the color of her eyes, because she looked up at him and headed his way. “Can I get you anything else, hon?”

He shook his head and looked behind him at the crossbow leaning against a wall. “No, I think I’m alright. It’s about time Bianca and I headed home.”

“Bia—oh, your bow!” She giggled. “Menfolk, always naming your weapons! Though I’m not sure I understand the imagery, in your case, what with it being a bow, and a girl’s name to boot. It’s easy enough to understand this lot, always giving their swords and daggers such suggestive names like… Well, I won’t repeat any of the names, but they aren’t nearly as clever as they think.”

He laughed along, tossed back the rest of his ale, and stood. “I think I could make a few guesses.”

“I bet you could. You’re cleverer than them by half, I can tell,” she said, voice pitched low as if sharing a secret. “Make sure you’re safe on your way home, now, for all that you have protection. It sure was nice seeing a newcomer look so relaxed here; I’d like to see you here again!”

He chuckled at that. “I used to be a regular, actually.” To put it mildly. “Though I admit, it has been a while. The service was not nearly so friendly the last time I was here. And Norah never could get my order right on the first try.”

She smiled at that, a close-lipped smile that seemed somehow softer, more genuine. Or maybe he’d drunk the last of his ale too quickly.

He tossed a few coins on the table, slung Bianca onto his back, and left with a nod of departure. She gave a little nod of her own, scooped up the change, and hurried back to the bar for refills.

Varric set out into the night at a leisurely pace, in no hurry to get home, despite his words. It was a nice night, warm and quiet, and a couple stars could be seen through the light pollution and smoky haze. Before he got far, however, he heard someone crying out behind him.

“—Viscount! Messere, Master Tethras, wait!”

He stopped, confused, and waited for the bounding dwarven girl to catch up with him. Panting, she thrust his coins back at him. “I’m sorry! Norah didn’t tell me until I asked about you being a regular, and I didn’t recognize you from the painting, I knew you looked familiar, I just… Here, take these back, please. Drinks are on the house.”

He shook his head, making no move to take the coin. “If you know who I am, you know I can afford to pay for my own drinks better than most. Keep it.”

“No, please—it’s not about that. You’ve… You’ve done so much for this district, when no one else did. I’m real honored to meet you, by the way, really. I’m Marigold, and just, thank you. So much. Drinks are on the house for the viscount, always. Well, for as long as it’s you, I mean.”

He just stood, arms crossed and grinning, making it clear he had no intention of complying with her. The night held its silence around them.

Then she smiled that softer, closed smile, and spoke firmly. “Now, I’m afraid I really must insist, Master Tethras. I’d be homeless if not for you! My whole family would. Our house was destroyed. We lived in the dirt in Darktown for a long time, and… Now we don’t. We have a home again, all of us, and jobs, thanks to you. I know I can never pay you back for what you’ve done, but I would feel a lot better if I didn’t owe you any _more_. So take the coin back? For me?”

“So after all I’ve done, you want me to do you another favor?”

Her smile grew big. “Sure am! But you’re a kind man, I know you’ll do it.”

Green.

Her eyes were light green.

He laughed, shaking his head at himself. “Alright, I won’t pay for the drinks. Under one condition.”

She nodded. “Name it.”

“You call me Varric. No more ‘Master Tethras’. And definitely no ‘Viscount’.”

“Deal.” She held out her hand again. Though it’s not what she intended, he clasped her hand and shook it to seal the deal, the coins still pressed between their palms. When he withdrew, he took half the coins with him and turned to leave again.

“Wait! You didn’t take it all! And here I thought we had a deal?”

“We do—that’s your tip.” He called back, without turning around.

“It’s too much for a tip!” She shouted back, laughing.

“The other half of it is from Ronauld. He asked me to hold on to it for him,” he lied. “Goodnight, Marigold.”

She laughed again, seeing through his guise. “Goodnight, Varric!”


	3. One Week Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternative chapter title: Fangirling

“You’re late,” groused Corff as Marigold skipped in for her morning shift.

“Am not.”

He did not return her cheerful smile. “Well, I wish you were here earlier, then.”

“Aw, I missed you too!” She replied. She ignored that what he really meant was that the drunks upstairs had woken up earlier than usual, and he didn’t want to deal with them himself. Norah wouldn’t be in for several hours.

Corff made a face of distaste at her banter, but she was pretty sure he was covering up a hint of a grin. She would get him to smile at her one of these days, she swore by it. “There’s a mess waiting for you, before you get to work on the chamber pots.”

She opened her mouth to ask what room, but then she heard a loud retching noise coming from upstairs. She flinched. “Ah. On it!”

She gathered a tin pitcher of water and some wooden cups before she made her way up the stairs, stopping in the cleaning closet to fill a bucket with the necessary supplies. She entered the largest room as quietly as she could with her hands full, trying not to wake whoever might have managed to sleep through the noise.

Inside, she found Joel hunched over the edge of a bed, dry heaving. She noticed that Ronauld was awake as well, rubbing his face. There was a couple somehow sharing one of the tiny cots, out cold, clearly nude under the ripped blanket.

“Looks like I should have cut you off, after all,” she chided, voice hushed.

“Sorry, Mare…” Joel mumbled as she sat down her armload and poured him a cup of water. He took the cup and drank compliantly.

“ _Shh_ , it’s what I’m here for, sugar. Now, you know your wife isn’t going to be too pleased about this.” She wet a clean rag, wringing it out before thrusting it at him. “Wash up.”

“Lanna ain’t ever pleased these days…”

“I’d be moody, too, if it were my husband staying out late and leaving me at home with the kids,” she answered, pouring another cup. This one she walked over to Ronauld, who was looking down at the boots on the floor as if trying to remember how they worked. He smiled appreciatively and drank obediently, happy to give up the logic puzzle to nurse his head.

Turning back to Joel, she said, “Wash your face and pluck a couple of my marigolds to bring home to her, to let her know you’ve been thinking of her. And don’t make her any promises you aren’t going to keep!”

Joel only grunted softly in response, but as she knelt to clean up his mess she caught him leaning over to break off a couple stems, tucking the flowers into his shirt pocket.

~~~

Hours later, Corff was gone for the day and Marigold was finally finishing up the last of her chores as the afternoon crowd was starting to make its way in. Arms full of terracotta pots, hurrying down the stairs, she nearly ran into a stout man and his hefty crossbow.

“Oh, you came back! How was your week?” she asked, resisting the urge to address him as ‘Viscount’, but not quite comfortable enough to call him by his first name again. Before he could answer, one of her pots shifted and started to wobble. He caught it before it had time to fall, readjusting it to a more stable position. “Thanks! Sorry. I’ll be right back to get your order!”

“Take your time, Marigold.”

She did, switching the pots that had spent the week in the sunny spots with the ones in the sunless areas. Marigolds didn’t need a lot of sun, but they grew better with it than without, so switching the plants around helped them all grow equally well. Well, except for the one upstairs that everyone kept pissing in…

“There, now. All finished,” she said as she returned, brushing off her skirt and apron.

“So you’re the one responsible for all these flowers,” he guessed. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Yep! I really think they brighten up the place, don’t you? I tried for the longest time to convince Corff to let me bring in one of grandmama’s pots when he first bought the place, and put all that work into fixing it up. ‘They’re real easy to take care of; they’re practically weeds,’ I said. ‘I’ll do all the work,’ I said. But he said he didn’t want the place smelling like flowers! Now, I don’t see what would be so bad about that, but I tried to tell him, you see, marigolds, they don’t smell very flowery at all.” She pulled out a blossom she had tucked behind her ear and held it out for him to smell. “Here, see?”

Varric held up his hands and shook his head with a laugh. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Well…” Oh gosh, what was she doing? She tried to bury her embarrassment, hoping her ruddy cheeks would hide the blush creeping up. “Trust me, they don’t make perfume out of these. But my grandmama, she says that marigolds drive the bugs away, and that plants clean the air, so I told Corff that but he—I, uh… I’m sorry, you probably didn’t want to know all that! Um, can I get you a drink?”

“Hey, I’m the one that asked. Now I know. Same as last time is fine.”

Same as—? Oh, the drink. Of course. “Of course! I’ll be right back!”

She made her retreat, wincing at herself once her back was turned. She went around the other tables to check on them and take their orders, reminding herself to keep her smile up, however shaky it was. What was she doing, babbling and sticking weeds under the viscount’s nose? She would have to be careful not to be so bothersome the rest of the night if she wanted him to keep coming back here. It was probably far too late to keep him from thinking she was exceptionally silly.

Marigold took care of all of the other patrons before she went to get Messere—to get Varric’s drink, with the hopes that the extra time would help her gather her wits. Ducking behind the bar, she poured a pint of the finest ale that the Hanged Man bothered to keep stocked.

Norah eyed her suspiciously as she did. “Be sure whoever you’re serving that to can afford it, this time.”

“It’s for the _viscount_ ,” she hissed under her breath, the word feeling taboo now. Norah nodded and seemed to accept that answer—if there was anyone in Kirkwall who could afford to pay their tab, it was him. An adventurer and a hero and a defender of those needing defending. _And_ the only time she’d ever heard of a dwarf being elected into such a high position in a surface city! He hadn’t even campaigned, hadn’t even wanted to be in charge. Papa always said that was a sign of a good leader, those that didn’t want power because they knew what a big responsibility it was, but the people wanted to follow them…

Well, it was the least she could do to give him the best during his downtime.

“Here you are: on the house, like we agreed,” she said as she delivered the pint to him. Lowering her voice as if telling a secret, she added, “I brought you the good stuff this time. Well, as good as it gets around here, which isn’t saying much. Don’t go telling the others, now, or everyone will be wanting special treatment!”

“I promise,” he said with a chuckle. She gave him a closed-lipped smile as she walked away.

~~~

A short time later she was leaning against the bar, watching the room. Even when it was busy, the guests didn’t need her very often, so she just tried to make sure she was available for when they did. Scanning the room, she met eyes briefly with the viscount, and he signaled her over.

“You know, you never finished telling me your story,” the—no, Varric said as she approached.

“Story?”

“Yeah, with the marigolds. Stories are kinda my thing, you can’t just leave me hanging like that. How did you convince ol' Corff to let you have your flowers?”

“Oh!” She laughed. He was teasing her, at least a little bit, but she didn’t mind. “I can see why such an epic tale would have you on the edge of your seat. Well, I just eventually ignored him and brought one, honestly. I think that he thinks he gave me permission when he was in his cups one day, because he never said anything, though he gave me some looks… But after a while, when there were fewer complaints about bed bugs, he said he knew it was because of my flowers and now he swears by them!

“Whenever one of my plants gets too big for its pot, he buys me a new one so I can divide up the roots. He grumbles about the cost, of course, but I don’t even ask him to do it.” She looked over her shoulder to make sure Norah wasn’t close enough to hear, and leaned in to whisper, “Between you and me, it’s pretty obvious that the bugs went away just because he has me working more than the previous owner did, and I actually do the washing for the sheets, but…”

She straightened with a shrug, and he laughed as he looked around. “So all these started as one plant?” She nodded with a proud smile, despite herself. “Wow. How long have you been working here?”

“Well now, I guess it’s been… About five years, I think? No, no it’s been six. Ever since it opened back up after… You know.”

His eyebrows raised in surprise. “Six?”

“That's right, why?”

“Nothing. You just seem a bit… Young, to have been working here that long.”

She laughed nervously. What did that mean? Did she seem immature? “I’m going to take that as a compliment, so, thank you. I’m not as young as I look, I'll have you know.”

“Well, in any case, Corff is lucky to have had you here so long. The Hanged Man is better for it.” After a thoughtful pause he changed the subject. “You know, I happen to have a story involving marigolds and the Hanged Man. Starring the Guard Captain.”

“Wow, really?”

~~~

“—and then she said, ‘It’s a real nice night for an evening!’” Varric barely got the sentence out before he broke down in laughter, slapping the table with his hand. Several other voices joined him, including Marigold’s as she leaned forward in her seat, chin on her hands as she listened intently.

Truth be told, it seemed like you sorta had to be there to find it as funny as he did, but she couldn’t help but get swept up in the story with the others, everyone enjoying the telling so much.

Someone behind her cleared their throat pointedly. Glancing back, she saw Norah glaring down at her, fists on her hips. Marigold jumped up, trying to remember when she had even sat down. Gaze darting around the tavern, she noticed several others sitting at Varric’s table as well, and a line at the bar—due to her lack of service.

“Oh, I’m sorry Norah!”

She didn’t wait for a response before running off to check on the rest of the guests. She thought she ought to excuse herself at least, but with the audience Varric had drawn he probably wouldn’t even notice her absence.

She rushed to catch up, and never did hear the end of the story Varric was still telling to all who would listen. She supposed it didn’t matter, though—they’d gotten to the parts with the copper marigolds and the awkward meeting in the tavern, and anyway, she knew Guard Captain Aveline was married to her Donnic, so it must have been a happy ending eventually.

She soon got used to the disappointment of missing parts of his stories, and settled for trying to keep a mental list of questions to ask later. As the evening went along he moved seamlessly from one tale to another, and while she tried to listen as best she could from across the room, she was bound to miss some bits. More than once she had to ask a customer to repeat himself because she had been listening to them with one ear and Varric with the other.

When the night wore on and the wee hours of the morning came about, guests filed out of the main room, either out the door to find their homes or up the stairs because they were in no state to walk any farther than that.

As Marigold was wiping down his table, Varric stood, grabbing his Bianca. “Well, I guess it’s time we get going.”

“I'm surprised you stayed so late! You left much earlier the last time.”

“Heh. I guess I didn’t realize I missed this old dump so much. Uh, not that you haven’t cleaned it up nicely, I mean.”

She waved a hand at him. “No need to make excuses, now. I do the best I can, but I know this place is a midden heap. I come in here every morning and sweep floors that are half gone. Do you know how hard it is to sweep dirt floors?” She laughed. “In any case, it was real nice to have you. The others really seemed to enjoy it, too! Much better entertainment than Nyck and his awful lute playing. You’ll come back soon, right?”

He returned her small smile with a nod. “Oh, I’m sure I will. Goodnight—Marigold.”

“Goodnight, Varric,” she replied, confused by the way he’d hesitated, just slightly, before using her name; much the same way she did on his, while trying to remember not to refer to him by his title. What had he almost called her, she wondered, as she dumped an armload of sticky steins into the dish bin.

Next to her, doing the drying, Norah eyed Varric’s back as he exited the door. “Did the dwarf just leave without paying?”

“Of course not! He paid me earlier is all,” Marigold lied, reaching into her apron pocket to pull some coins from her tips and dropped them in the till to pay for his drinks. Luckily for her, Varric drank very slowly.


	4. Not His Biggest Fan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a piece for _Marigolds_ that just didn't fit in the main story anywhere... I posted it on my [tumblr](http://redinkofshame.tumblr.com/post/148840923085/snippet-from-marigolds), if you're interested.

Varric had tried to resist, but the more unending paperwork he shuffled across his desk, the more unopened letters he tossed on Bran’s desk, the more audiences he granted for petty complaints, the more his thoughts were pulled to the Hanged Man. He'd been spending a lot of time there lately, but who could blame him? The Viscount's Keep; with its stone walls, tiled floors, and narrow glass-paned windows that let in light but no air; was stuffy in more ways than one. Anyone in their right mind would find open-windowed breezes carrying the not-very-flowery scent of marigolds preferable to this.

Bran entered Varric’s office with a frown. “How did your meeting with the emissary from Starkhaven go?” the seneschal asked, by way of greeting.

The service was a lot nicer at the Hanged Man, too.

“Do you even have to ask?”

“Shall I schedule a meeting with the Council, to discuss the matter?”

‘Why bother?’ Varric almost asked. Instead, he groaned as he stood and grabbed his beloved, to sling her on his back. “I suppose we should, not that I think anything will come of it. Schedule the meeting… But do me a favor and don’t schedule it any time soon. It’s not a priority without any new information.”

“As you like.”

“Thanks, Provisional. I owe you one.”

Bran’s frown deepened at the nickname, though he didn’t bother fighting it anymore. “Oh, you’ll owe me a favor, is it? That makes how many?”

“Yeah, yeah… Listen, I’m headed out for the day. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Bran only grunted disinterestedly in response; he’d grown accustomed to the viscount taking off in the month or so since Varric rediscovered the best tavern in Kirkwall.

~~~~~

And so, Varric found himself in his favorite spot in this middle of the afternoon, much earlier than his usual time. So early, in fact, that Marigold wasn’t there yet.

Not that that mattered. It wasn’t like he was there to see her. It was just that Norah always got his order wrong.

“I'm surprised that Marigold isn’t here,” he ventured as Norah silently dropped off the mead he hadn’t ordered. “I was beginning to think Corff made her live here.”

“Corff doesn’t pay her enough to charge her rent, Varric.” she answered with a scoff. “Mare usually alternates full days and half days, with me or Corff working the rest of the shifts so that there’s always two of us to take care of you lot. This is one of her half days. Poor girl has to sleep sometime.”

“So you do remember who I am. You’ve barely said two words to me since I’ve been back—I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me.” He took a sip of his mead and winced at the taste.

“Fat chance. Maybe I was just giving you the silent treatment, to keep you from getting a big head now that you’ve gone and made something of yourself, Viscount.”

Varric scratched the stubble on his chin, musing. “I’ve tried to forget my humble beginnings, it’s true, but I’m just better suited to the life of a rich peasant than a self-important noble bastard. Besides, how could I ever forget you, Norah?”

He laughed as Norah rolled her eyes and turned away, unamused.

~~~

Varric was reminded how empty a tavern could be at this hour by, well, how empty the tavern was. There were few patrons, Joel and Nyck and a few others, but everyone sat alone in silence.

He scrounged up some parchment, quills, and ink, passing the time by catching up on some correspondence. If he didn’t check up on his friends now and then, they’d never stay in touch. Those of them that could still be found, anyway…

As he finished a letter to a certain elf, he set it aside to dry and stretched out his arms, looking up in time to see Marigold coming in the front door. To his great amusement, she went straight to Joel the moment she saw him, as he’d suspected she would.

Varric watched as she stomped right up to the poor man’s back, arms akimbo. As Marigold’s shadow spread over him and the table, Joel flinched. He turned around, meeting the serving girl’s eyes tentatively.

“Now, Mare, don’t you start on me—”

“What are you doing here, Joel? And in the middle of the day, no less!”

“You don’t understand,” he whined.

“So explain it to me in a way I understand, then. Just why it is you’re here instead of with your family during your time off?”

“Tanna, she—she kicked me out, Marigold. Told me she didn’t want to see my face anymore! She said I was _breathing_ too loud. I didn’t know where else to go…”

Marigold’s stern face crumpled into one of pity, her hands falling to her side. “Oh, honey… Come here…”

She wrapped her arms around him, her standing and him still turned around on his bench, pulling him in for a long embrace. Joel’s face was buried in the dwarf’s bosom, and Varric might have thought that the often-handsy man was taking advantage of her kindness if not for Joel’s shoulders shaking while he wept into her apron.

Varric had the decency to look away, but he couldn’t prevent himself from hearing the man’s muffled sobs. Marigold mumbled soft condolences as she pat his shoulder. “Oh, there there. It’ll be alright, you’ll see.”

“I just, I don’t think she—my wife doesn’t even _like_ me anymore!”

“Well now, maybe she does and maybe she don’t...” The words caused Joel to cry harder, so she raised her voice to finished, “ ** _but_** , she _does_ love you. You know she does. She’s not going to kick you out for good! It sounds to me like Tanna just needs some time to cool off. You go ahead and stay here for a few hours, but you’re gonna go home before sunset and talk to her, you hear? Really talk it out. No getting drunk before you go. And, well, if she… Needs more time to cool down, you know you can always come back here, okay? I’ll take real good care of you.”

Joel mumbled something as he nodded into Marigold’s chest, and after a moment she pulled away from him with an optimistic smile. Then she disappeared upstairs, briefly. She must have found no chores to be done, because she soon returned, kicking out a chair to sit in front of Varric. Elbows on the table and chin in her hands, she smiled at him in what he was quickly coming to think of as her ‘tell me a story’ expression.

He did his best to hide the effect that eager look had on him, but his own grin broke out despite his best efforts. “You know—” He still hadn’t come up with a good nickname for her, yet. He kept catching himself about to use ‘sugar’ or ‘hon’ like she did on all her guests, but he didn’t think it would sound right coming from him. “—Marigold, not to agree with Ronauld, but you’d probably receive better tips if you didn’t yell at your customers just for coming in. Or allowed them to drink.”

She laughed. “I did _not_ yell. And there are more important things than tips. Like family. And happiness.”

“Well, you’ve got me there.” He crossed his arms. “So, what stories did you miss which parts of?”

“Actually, I think I’m all caught up,” she answered. Small wonder there; Varric had been trying to pace his tales so that all the important parts happened when she was close and obviously eavesdropping, filling the rest of the accounts with pointless drabble when she had to step away. It was satisfying to know his technique had worked. “But I was wondering, would you tell me Bianca’s story?”

“Heh. That one’s a popular request. She is one of a kind, after all. There’s this shop in town, if you know where to look. Real exclusive. It’s as if the ‘black market’ was an actual place—”

“Yes, yes, and you cleverly named it the ‘Black Emporium’ instead of the black market, and you found Bianca in a barrel and traded the ham sandwich you were carrying (for some reason that you never explained) with the owner, who cackles and has too many limbs _and spEAKss in dis CRAzy paperyyy voic-eh!_ ” She did her best to imitate Xenon’s voice, the effect ruined by her giggling immediately afterward. “While he’s one of my favorite characters, that’s not the story I meant.

“Though, it’s a much more interesting story than when you bought her from a merchant in Lowtown, with the previous owner’s finger still wrapped around the trigger, or the one where a mysterious beggar just gave her to you and disappeared.

“I also don’t mean the one where you found her in a dragonbone chest on a sunken ship, or the one where you won her in a match of Diamondback with Paragon Branka. I meant the _real_ story, Varric. Even if it's dull. I won’t tell anyone.”

Any pleasure Varric felt at having such an adept listener was smothered by the knowledge that he had to disappoint her. He spoke quietly, looking away. “Sorry, Marigold. Bianca is the one story I can never tell. There was a girl, and I made a promise. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Oh...”

There was an awkward silence, where he caressed Bianca’s stock with his thumb and Marigold fiddled nervously with a flower pot on his table, removing a broken stem and tucking the marigold behind her ear.

After a few seconds, she looked up again. “What about the one with that sheep? The one that gives advice—Lord Wooly?”

Varric gave her a smile, glad for the subject change. “I’m surprised you don’t know all about that one already; it’s in my book, ‘All This Shit is Weird’. You’re not a fan of my writing?”

“Oh, I’m sure I would be! I just haven’t been able to read any of your work is all.”

“Not even ‘The Tale of the Champion’? It’s, well, infamous really, even if I do say so myself. Especially around here.”

She shook her head. “Sorry! I’ve heard of it, of course, heard lots about it, and everyone says it’s very good. Much better than anything Corff has written, I hear. It’s just…” Varric could have kicked himself as her voice trailed off. What if she couldn’t read? Illiteracy was common enough in Lowtown, and even more so in Darktown. “Well, no way to say it but to say it. Books cost money, you know? It’s just never really been a priority for us.”

He knew ‘us’ meant her family; she talked about them often. He wondered if admitting to the viscount that she couldn’t afford books was any less embarrassing for her than not being able to read would have been. He was making a real mess of this conversation. “Well, I’ll just have to bring you something to read, then. ‘Hard in Hightown’. It’s still my best seller, starring veteran Guardsman Donnen Brennokovic—”

“Well, now, don’t spoil it!”


	5. Dangerous Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this chapter like five times. I hope it turned out right.

Varric returned to the Hanged Man at a much more reasonable hour the next time, brand new copy of ‘Hard in Hightown’ in hand. He could have loaned her one of his own old copies, of course, but he thought better of it and made a gift of it instead. And why not? She loved stories. A girl like her ought to have a library of her own.

He couldn’t get a copy from his publisher on such short notice, of course, so he’d had to buy one. Buy his own book, that he wrote, himself. And the merchant wouldn’t even give him a discount in exchange for autographing the rest of his stock!

His eyes scanned the room as he entered, taking in the familiar faces of friends and lowlifes—most were both. He was pleased to see the other patrons had accepted that the seat in the corner belonged to Varric, and left it open for him even though he wasn’t here most nights.

As he made his way to his chair, he paused several times to exchange greetings with his lowlife friends, and then to scan the room once more. When he passed close to the bar, Norah spoke up. “She’s upstairs.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Norah grunted skeptically. “Yeah, but you didn’t have to ask who I meant, either.”

Varric kept walking, not bothering with a response. The crowd in the Hanged Man was always predominantly male; of course he would know who Norah meant by ‘she’. It didn’t mean anything.

He headed upstairs.

He saw the door of the cleaning closet cracked open again—it never latched correctly. Before he open the door any farther he caught a peek inside, and found Marigold… crying. She was sitting on an overturned bucket, head in her hands, crying softly into the hem of her apron.

A knot formed immediately in Varric’s stomach, and he had to pull back his hand and clench it into a fist to keep himself from his first instinct of bursting into the room and demanding to know who had hurt her. His secondary instinct was to comfort her, hold her and let her cry it out until she felt better. His tertiary instinct was to run away from the confusing feelings of his initial reactions, and the sense of accompanying dread that settle on his chest.

‘Away’ was definitely the way to go—he couldn’t very well let her know he’d caught her.

He called himself ten kinds of a coward as he walked back to the main room. But it was the right thing to do, giving her privacy; she wouldn’t be hiding in a closet if she’d wanted to be seen. And, anyway, it was none of his business. Everyone had their own tales, to tell or keep to themselves.

~~~

Varric noticed instantly when, only a few minutes later, Marigold was walking down the stairs with a handful of neatly folded rags. She must have felt his eyes following her, because she only made it a few steps before turning towards him.

“Oh, you’re back again already!” she greeted him, her smile every bit as broad and genuine as ever.

It took him a moment to respond, unable to take in how normal she looked. Her eyes were always bright, so there was no impression of lingering tears. Her cheeks were prone to pinkness, so it was always so hard to notice her flush, especially in the dim lightning. Only the wrinkles and wets spots on her apron proved that he hadn’t imagined the whole thing, and those could have been explained as easily as spilled ale.

“I, uh… Wanted to bring you this. It’s a gift,” he eventually answered, gesturing to the book.

“For me? Oh, aren’t you the sweetest thing!” she asked excitedly, reaching for the book. “Look at it, it’s wonderful! I’ve never had a book all neat and new before. Now, I really ought to refuse it, you know, but I’m so looking forward to reading it that I’m just going to say ‘thank you’ instead!”

She leaned over and hugged him around his shoulders where he sat, pinning his arms to his sides awkwardly. When she released him, it was to run her hand over the cover of her book, opening it to random pages. When she lifted the book to smell it he couldn’t help but chuckle. Varric couldn't remember seeing anything so endearing in his life. He decided that if that’s all it took to make her this happy, someone ought to give her a hundred books, as recompense for all the troubled spirits she had to deal with. Not him, of course, but someone.

“How do you do it—” Sunshine? No, he’d already used that one. “—Marigold?”

“Hmm? Do what, sugar?”

“Stay so cheerful all the time? Doesn’t anything ever get to you?”

She laughed, hugging the book to her chest. “Well of course! But I just try my best to be happy in spite of it, I guess. Smiling feels good, even when you’re faking, so if you do it long enough, it becomes real. And sometimes, when you smile at people, they smile back, and it feels good, knowing I helped them in that small way. It’s like what you say when people ask why you tell stories: 'The stories are their own reward'. Well, so's smiling.”

He shook his head, still not understanding how she could look so content when she was crying just moments ago. “Still, it must be hard, especially when you take care of this miserable lot every day. I see you listening to their troubles, sometimes for hours. Don’t they ever bring you down?”

She shrugged, and her smile softened to that special smile she seemed to reserve just for him. She looked out into the room. “Sometimes, I suppose. They can’t help it. Everyone is so set on their dreams that it makes them miserable.”

“Their dreams make them miserable? Aren’t dreams supposed to give people hope?”

“Well, maybe they’re supposed to, but it seems to me it just makes people forget to be happy _now_. Take a look at Ronauld, over there. He’s so sure he’s going to make it rich one day, with his little schemes that keep getting him into trouble, that he wastes every coin he earns here. He could save up and work towards something better, but he thinks of everything he has right now as only temporary until his real life begins.

“Norah? She’s been waiting her whole life for some man to take her away from all this; she doesn’t even see what a nice life she’s managed to build with her kids in the meantime. And Corff, he dreamed of owning a tavern for years. When the previous owner put this place up for sale, Corff bought it right away. He was so excited back then, had all these plans for fixing up the place, but then it just… Passed. He stopped caring again. He accomplished his dream and it wasn’t what he thought, and now he doesn’t know what he wants.

“And some others, well, they’re stuck in the past instead of the future. The ‘good old days,’ or former glories...” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Or loved ones that have moved on, and aren’t coming back.”

“Dreams are dangerous things,” Varric agreed quietly, unconsciously reaching for Bianca as he suddenly felt uncomfortable with the conversation. Marigold’s musings also reminded him of a story about a man and a boat once told to him by an ancient elvhen asshole, but he didn't want to talk about that. Instead he asked, “So what’s your dream, Marigold?”

She laughed, breaking her reverie with a playful smile. “Well, now, who says I have one?”

“You did say ‘everyone’.”

“Myself not included, then.”

“Ah, come on. There must be something you want.”

“Oh, of course there is, hon. I'm just... Not gonna to tell it.”

“Why not?”

“Well… It's embarrassing!”

“Ha! What, you want to move to Val Royeaux and open a hat shop?”

She laughed. “No.”

“Bake the world's largest apple pie?”

“ _No_.”

“Travel across the Eastern Sea?”

“No! And stop guessing! I won’t tell you, even if you guess it right. Now, I’m going to go put this book away, before it gets mussed.”

~~~

“So what did you do with him?”

“Well, we had shit to do, so we just left him there, bare ass in the air!” The crowd in front of Varric broke into fits of laughter over the story of the time that the Inquisitor found a naked man tied to Empress Celene’s bed while trying to uncover an assassination plot. He normally didn’t like to remind folks that the Inquisitor had ‘failed’ to prevent Celene’s demise, but the story was just too good not to tell.

As the crowd dispersed he could see Marigold on the other side, mopping up a spill on the floor and trying not to giggle, as if she wasn’t listening while she worked. He walked across the room to her to say, “You know, I’ve been thinking—you said Corff wasn’t sure he wanted this place anymore. Do you think he’s looking to sell it?”

“He’s been saying he wants to for a few years, but whenever a buyer pops up he changes his mind,” she explained, hunched over as she sloshed water around the floor. “It’s a bit nerve wracking, honestly, wondering if I’m going to come in one day to find out he’s finally gone through with it, and I don’t have a job anymore. Why? You’re not looking to buy, are you?”

“Of course! I’ve been trying to get this place for years. I even tried dragging the Guard Captain into it once, but she had some colorful things to say about that.”

She finished cleaning the mess, lifting her mop and plopping it into a bucket of water. “You can’t buy the Hanged Man, silly!”

“And why not? You wouldn’t have to worry about your job; I promise you wouldn’t want for anything.”

That had come out differently than he intended. Luckily, she didn’t seem to pick up on it. “You’re always complaining that all the taverns in Hightown are owned by the Merchants’ Guild. If you bought the Hanged Man, it would be owned by the Guild, too!”

Varric opened his mouth to protest, but of course she was right—technically. But it was in name only, so it didn’t really count. Before he came up with a new response, a voice rang out from the doorway behind him. “Mare!”

Marigold leaned to look around Varric. “Mikah! You’re early. I’m not done with my chores, yet!”

She scurried away to finish up as fast as possible, and Varric eyed the human man leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed. Varric knew, from the few times he’d stayed so late that Marigold’s shift ended, that Mikah was here to walk her home.

As Mikah and Marigold continued to bicker (‘Well hurry up then! We’re getting an early shipment today!’, ‘Well, now, you could have told me so I’d be ready, you know!’), Varric wondered how it was possible to spend so much time with someone so kind and pretty and cheerful and still walk around with such a sour expression.

Mikah met Varric’s gaze and narrowed his eyes, obviously sizing him up—clearly, he had no idea who Varric really was. The men stood like that, unmoving, as Marigold made promises to Norah to come in early the next day to put away the still-drying dishes.

“Come on, then,” Marigold muttered as she huffed past Mikah and out the door. Mikah pointedly held Varric’s eyes a second longer, before being the first to break contact as he turned to follow her out.

Varric was still standing there, fingering the crossbow on his back and trying to figure out exactly what had just transpired, when the door banged open again. Marigold dashed to the bar, grabbed her book, and ran right back out with a breathless smile and a faint little wave in his direction.

“Goodnight, Marigold,” he said softly to her fleeting form, watching her leave with the other man.


	6. Inspiration and Perspiration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty short, sorry guys. Marigold gets lots more POV time later, promise.

Marigold was distracted as she entered work, still preoccupied with a conversation she’d had with her brother that morning.

“Did you enjoy your day off?” Corff asked, startling her. His voice sounded more concerned than curious, reminding her to pull up her smile.

“Of course! Always nice to spend time with my family. Mostly.” She stashed her book under the bar counter.

“Your friend was in here yesterday. Left without paying. Norah said I should ask you about that,” he said, suspiciously.

“Oh, was he? I’ve—” She reached into her apron pocket, but of course her shift just started, so it was empty. “Uh, can I pay you back by the end of the night?”

He nodded, still watching her closely. “Yes, but I’m curious why you’d need to.”

“Well now, because I haven’t gotten any tips yet today! Speaking of family…” He arched an eyebrow at her inept transition, and she took a deep breath to steel herself. “When was the last time you went to go see yours? You should take some time off, I’d be happy to pick up some shifts while you’re gone—”

“What’s this about, Marigold?”

She sighed. “I need to come in a few more days for a few weeks. Or every day. My family is behind on some… Payments. More so than usual, I mean.”

It was his turn to sigh. “I can’t just take away Norah’s shifts; she has a family, too.”

“I know! That’s why I suggested that you take some time off… You aren’t paying you, you live off the profits. I could work her waitressing shifts and she could work bar for you.”

“Which I would have to pay her for, unlike myself. What happened to your maid gigs?”

“No one has been looking to hire me to clean for them for a while. Mama is still getting steady work, but there doesn't seem to be enough for us both.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mare, really. I wish I could help, but I just can’t afford it right now.”

“Of course. I get it.” She didn’t leave, though, and after a thoughtful moment added, “What if you don’t pay me for the time, then? It wouldn’t cost you any more, and I could still make money off the tips.”

That surprised him into raising both eyebrows this time. “You should never let your employer know you’re so desperate you’d work for free—he may never pay you again. Something is up, Marigold. You’re in some kind of trouble.”

“Everyone in Lowtown is in some kind of trouble. I’ve got it handled, really.”

He let out a breath. “You need to make sure Norah is okay with it, but I’m obviously not going to turn down an offer like that. I won’t be leaving town, though, if there’s anything you need help ‘handling’.”

She smiled happily and hugged him in thanks, ignoring his grumbling as she tiptoed up to kiss him on the cheek. Norah would be fine with it, she was sure.

She spent the next several hours upstairs airing out the rooms, changing linens, righting toppled furniture. When she was finished, she went back downstairs, arms full of empty cups to dump in the bin behind the bar, and was surprised to see Varric sitting in his usual spot in the otherwise empty tavern.

He was scrawling on parchment with a quill, though surely he could afford nicer pens. There were scrolls and sheets of paper in disorderly stacks spread all around him, some with words, some that looked like diagrams, and some blank. He was smoking a pipe, which was unusual enough, but he was also wearing _glasses_.

It was a good look on him.

He spotted her over the rim of his half-moon frames, and looked equally surprised to see her. He set down his quill so he could pull the pipe from his mouth, and smiled. “I didn’t think you’d be here today.”

‘Then why are you here?’ she very nearly asked, just barely managing to catch herself before the words slipped off her tongue. What a silly question! It wasn’t as if he came to the Hanged Man just to see her.

“I could say the same thing!” she said instead. “Norah and I switched yesterday and today because it was one of her kid's birthdays, or something. What are you doing here in the middle of the day? Not that you aren’t always welcome, now, it’s just…”

He gestured with a hand, still holding the pipe. “I’m trying to get some writing done. I’m up against a deadline and my publisher has been hounding me, not to mention a certain Seeker, but I can’t seem to get anywhere with this. There’s too much noise at my office, and too much quiet at home. I thought I’d see if a change of scenery would help spark some inspiration.”

She tried not to be flattered by the idea that she might provide inspiration, in some small way. It wasn't as if she owned the Hanged Man, but she did take care of it. “Well, I will endeavor to make just the right amount of noise, then, so long as you let me read it when you're done.”

“Well, that depends. Tell me, how did you like Hard in Hightown? You haven't said a word since I gave you that book last week.”

Oops. She shouldn't have said anything—she was struggling to read the book she already had, and just look at all those pages! Whatever he was writing now, there's no way she'd be able to finish it. A nervous giggle escaped her. “Oh, well, I'm just not done with it is all. I really like it so far! I'm just a terribly slow reader. I haven't had much cause to practice my letters.”

There were small children who could read better than her.

He looked like he wanted to say something for a moment, but she couldn't tell what he was thinking. When he spoke it was to say, “Well then, maybe when I'm done with this one I'll read it to you.”

It was joke, of course. Of course he'd be joking... But the idea of it sounded really nice, and utterly humiliating, and she wondered what kind of book it was. She heard herself squeak out a response (she hoped) as she ran for shelter behind the bar and her armload of dishes. She told herself she was just imaging the look Corff gave her, and the feeling that Varric was still watching her.

The rest of the afternoon went quietly. Perhaps too quietly? But maybe not quietly enough. She'd never been so aware of how loud her sweeping was, or the squeak of chairs when she moved them out of the way, or the protest of wood as she scrubbed tables. She didn't know if she should be trying to be extra loud or extra quiet. She settled on just doing her work normally, but she no longer remembered what normal was.

The cleaning was done quickly, as she expected. She wouldn't be needed for several more hours, and had planned to use this time to sit in front of the brazier with her book. There was no way she could stay downstairs and read, though, not with Varric to witness her struggling over simple words that he wrote with ease.

So, she hid her book behind a serving tray and told Corff she'd be upstairs if he needed her.

~~~

She read, fighting with the letters for around an hour before her headache demanded she stop. She was pleased to find that it was getting easier for her, though. The first two days she'd had to ask her sister to help with every third word. She stashed the book in the cleaning closet before she went to the staircase.

As she padded down the stairs, she paused at the sound of furious scribbling on parchment—she hadn't realized how much she'd missed the sound from before. She stopped near the bottom of the steps, just out of sight of Varric, and leaned against the wall separating them as she hugged her serving tray to her.

She could claim that she stopped because she didn't want to interrupt when he obviously was making good progress, but it wasn't true. It was because she was just now realizing that she could listen to the scratching sounds of quills, interrupted only by the sound of dipping into an ink bottle, for the rest of her life.

She also realized she was most definitely smitten with the Viscount of Kirkwall.

Well, that was just silly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my outline, this chapter is labeled 'smitten kitten'.


	7. Crying Over Spilled Mead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild plot has appeared! Is it bad that it took seven chapters?

“Your mail, Viscount.” Seneschal Bran monotoned as he thrust a couple letters at Varric.

“You know where to shove those, Provisional.”

Bran cleared his throat. “I think you'll want to see these, Messere.”

“I highly doubt—” Varric stopped short when he saw the wax seals, taking the letters from Bran's hands. After a moment, he finished, “I see. Good work, Bran. Thank you.”

Bran rolled his eyes as he departed, leaving Varric alone in his office, staring at the wax seals. He sat down roughly in his seat, and gingerly ran the pad of his thumb over the first one. Cheap colorless wax, most likely from whatever candle had been handy when the writer had finished. The impression left by the signet ring was a sunburst eye, impaled by a sword. The symbol of the supposedly-disbanded Inquisition. He'd been wondering when he'd hear from her.

He tucked that envelope under the other. This seal was done properly in golden wax, the stamp of the Merchants' Guild ever familiar. What made this letter different from the ones he received from the Guild every week was the addition of a second sigil laid beside it—that of House Davri.

Bianca.

~~~~~

Varric was no longer surprised to find himself in the Hanged Man late at night. Or any time of day, really, so long as Marigold was scheduled. Not that that mattered, of course, it was just nicer when she was around. It helped make up for it being way too clean, for a tavern.

“You know, there's no one renting the suite right now, if you two would like a little privacy.”

The sound of her voice shook him out of his thoughts. He looked up at Marigold, and then back down at the crossbow in his lap. He'd been absentmindedly caressing Bianca for some time, trying to ignore the letter he'd burned from the Inquisitor, in addition to the one burning a hole in his pocket. Eventually, he remembered to chuckle at her joke. “I don't think that will be necessary—” Sweetheart? No, definitely not sweetheart. “—Marigold. Guess I'm just a bit lost in thought tonight.”

He bit back the urge to ask her about his book again. She would mention it when she was done. He'd never known such a slow reader! Even if she wasn't finished, he'd expected her to be unable to hold back, had looked forward to her chatting excitedly about her favorite scenes or parts that had her on the edge of her seat, in the same animated way she did when listening to his tales. But she was silent.

It was his most popular work, though thanks to his publisher's lies he may never know by just how much. It was read all over Thedas. It had been in style in Orlais one court season. He even knew a certain demigod asshole who'd read it while plotting world destruction.

And yet he couldn't stop himself from feeling anxious about what this cute dwarven serving girl thought about it. Did she not like it?

He should have just asked her, because instead she chose the topic of conversation. “What’s that song you’re always humming? I’ve never heard it anywhere else.”

“I’d be surprised if you had. I wrote it myself.”

Her eyes lit up. “I didn’t know you were a songwriter, too! Would you sing one for me?”

He could have kicked himself. He loved how easy it was to read her emotions, but not when he had to watch her go from excited to…

“Actually, I’ve only written the one. It’s Bianca’s song.” …to a poor attempt to hide her crestfallen disappointment. “It helps me concentrate.”

It was a lame excuse, offered with a shrug. He saw the curiosity pass over her face, but knew she wouldn’t ask; she hadn’t asked about Bianca again after the first time.

“Oh.” She almost seemed to be talking to herself when she added, tightly, “Someday I hope someone loves me half as well as you love that old crossbow. Excuse me.”

Andraste’s flaming knickers, he was an ass. Wasn’t he? Watching her walk away without looking at him certainly made him feel like one, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Everyone had stories they didn’t want to tell.

He watched as she went to the bar and began loading a serving tray with filled mugs. He felt like he needed to apologize, but he wasn’t sure what to say, given that he wasn’t sure he’d actually done anything wrong. Marigold struggled to lift the heavy laden tray, bowing slightly under the weight as his eyes followed her to the stairs. She didn’t look in his direction.

Still staring off in the direction of the stairs, he didn’t notice Norah’s approach until she was directly in front of him. She refilled his near-empty mug with a frown on her face and a fist on her hip. He took a sip out of habit, and nearly spat it right back out. That was definitely not the good stuff.

He looked up to see Norah’s satisfied smirk. “You know, Norah, I can wait until Marigold makes her rounds. You didn’t have to leave the bar.”

“I can’t believe you’re taking advantage of that sweet girl like that, Varric. Shame on you.”

“Me? What did I do?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know,” she scoffed.

“Who’s pretending?”

“Marigold has been working extra shifts and whatever side jobs she can find, and here you are, drinking on her tab!”

It took a couple heartbeats for understanding to come to him. “Shit. You could have said something sooner.” He didn’t drink a lot, and left large tips of course, but not enough to cover the full amount of his bill each time. How was he going to make up the difference now, without her suspecting anything?

Norah rolled her eyes. “You ought to know there’s no such thing as ‘on the house’ at the Hanged Man, Varric.”

“Well pardon me for thinking Corff might have made an exception after he had my likeness painted on the wall,” he retorted, jerking his thumb to the mural behind him. “Without my consent, I might add.”

“Yeah, I can tell you’re broken up about it, the way you sit right in front of it every night, so you’re sure to be recognized.” He started to protest, but she spoke over him, “That squirrely little elf you used to run around with told him it was alright. Said she’d vouch for the rest of you.”

“Daisy. I should have known.”

“Whatever. You’d better make this up to that poor dwarf. And stop leading her on, she has enough problems.”

“Leading her—?” His question remained unfinished as Norah left in a huff. Varric glared down at the ‘ale’ that filled his mug, wondering idly what, exactly, the swill was watered down with. Probably better not to know.

He sighed and pushed it away from him. Best go talk to Marigold about this.

~~~

Varric tried to avoid going upstairs since he began frequenting the Hanged Man again. He’d realized early on, when some patrons who were clearly falsifying some shipping manifests shut up whenever he was near, that his presence discouraged the seedy element he loved about this bar. No one seemed comfortable doing ‘business’ with the viscount near.

It wasn’t completely unfounded, either—even he had to admit that he’d tipped off the Guard Captain to some of the more deadly tidbits he’d overheard, or made sure he happened to be taking a stroll nearby the location of a scheduled ambush.

For a while he feared that he’d have to stop coming to the tavern to prevent it from going straight; if you loved something, sometimes you had to let it go. But then an unspoken law had formed. He would try his best not to eavesdrop on anything he didn’t want to know, and anyone who had something less scrupulous to discuss headed upstairs.

He made an exception tonight, though, hoping that it wouldn’t affect the delicate balance. He needed to talk to Marigold, and he’d prefer to do it without Norah breathing down his neck.

He checked the cracked door of the cleaning closet first, though he didn’t expect to find her in there. He didn’t. The unoccupied suite was locked—Corff liked to keep people out of there, so if anyone actually wanted to pay for it they wouldn’t have to chase anyone out first. When Varric checked the group room, he did it by sticking his head in, looking around, and pulling back out. No eye contact, making it clear he wasn’t there for any of them, just looking for someone. The conversation stopped, but he could hear the muffled sound of it starting up again almost immediately after he closed the door.

He headed toward the group room to the back left when he heard shouting from the storage room where Hawke used to find payment for cleaning up the streets.

“I've already given you an extra week! Where is it?”

He would have tried to ignore the shout, but it was followed immediately by a woman’s yelp. Without thinking, Varric whipped Bianca off his back and ran to the room, kicking the door open as he raised his weapon. As he took in the scene, he leveled his crossbow to a human man whose fist was holding the front of Marigold’s apron, towering over her and pulling her up until only her toes were still on the ale-soaked floor.

“Please, I’ll get it, I’ve taken up as much extra work as I can, I-I’ll have it in no time, really—”

The way Marigold’s arms were raised in front of her face and her eyes were screwed shut as if expecting to be struck filled Varric with a sudden rage, as did the way the man holding her narrowed his eyes, giving Varric a once-over. “This doesn’t concern you, dwarf,” he growled.

Despite his words, the thug loosened his grip on Marigold without taking his eyes off the arrow that was pointed at him. Then Varric saw him slowly going for the knife on his belt.

“Bianca, here, disagrees.” Varric tightened his grip so the man wouldn’t mistake his meaning.

After a tense heartbeat, the only sound in the room the dripping of ale from the overturned mugs scattered around the toppled tray, the brute released Marigold completely and raised his hands where Varric could see them. Marigold scuttled away from them both, eyes big and bright and wet and scared, but he saw hope in them when he glanced at her to make sure she was alright.

“I can’t go back without the money,” protested the man, tearing Varric’s eyes from Marigold and the funny flip his stomach did when she looked at him like that. “She owes me, and I owe people a lot worse than me.”

Varric didn’t think he’d lose any sleep over this guy ending up dead in a ditch somewhere, but it would be safer to give him what he wanted so he wouldn’t come after Marigold again. He reached into his shirt and pulled out a bag of coin, tossing it to the crook.

“That’ll cover it.” The pouch was meant to pay a finder's fee; it was more than enough to cover any debt a single Lowtown resident would have been able to get credit for. “Don’t come back again later, looking for another payout. You’ll take that and your life and be grateful, or I’ll take both the next time I see you. Understood?”

Varric waited until the man nodded before he stepped out of the doorway so he could escape. He wondered if the human would use the extra money to pay off his debts and go clean, or drink himself to death within the week.

Either was fine with Varric, so long as he did it far away from Marigold.

He lowered his weapon and turned to her, expecting her to complain about the money he’d just spent; after all, he came up here because she hadn’t even let him pay for his own drinks. “Before you— Oof!”

She flung herself at him with a cry, wrapping her arms around his neck and knocking him back a pace in surprise. He stood, stunned, as she bawled and babbled incoherently. After a short moment, when she didn’t immediately pull back, he wrapped an arm around her to hold her closer. It only seemed to make her sob harder.

“ _Shh_ ,” he tried to sooth her, as they stood in a puddle of beer. “It’s okay now, Sweetheart, you’re safe. It’s over.”

He lost track of the time they spent like that, him holding her in one arm as she cried on his shoulder, his other hand still wrapped around Bianca.


	8. Enough

After Varric saved her from that loan shark, everyone spent the rest of the night babying Marigold. After she’d finished making a fool of herself crying (admittedly, like a baby) into the viscount’s fine silk shirt, she tried to gather up her wits. She started to clean up the soon-to-be sticky storeroom, more to keep her hands busy than anything else, but Varric had scolded her and told her not to worry about it, and to clean up herself first.

She had to admit, it felt good to sit for a moment and wash her face. She waited until her breathing could be completely trusted to stay steady before she left the closet, by which time someone had done a rough job of cleaning up the mess. Probably Norah. Did Varric tell her what had happened?

He didn’t seem like the type, but someone must have figured it out, because when she went downstairs to lay her boots to dry in front of the fire she was met with a chorus of concern from her regular customers. She smiled at all the ‘are you alright, Mare?’ and ‘we’d never let anything happen to you’ and ‘just tell us who we need to kill’ sentiments—they were a bit much, and she tried to be annoyed, but they meant well.

She padded over to where Varric was standing, knowing she still owed him an explanation.

Before she could speak, he did. “I’d ask if you were feeling better, but it seems like half the bar has beat me to it.”

She smiled. “Yes, it seems they’re all quite protective suddenly. It’s sort of surprising, but sweet.”

“Surprising? You see most of these men at least once a week, you’re nice to them, you smile, you scold them for their own good. I bet every man in this place would jump to your defense as quickly as his sister or daughter.”

“Oh goodness, I really hope you don’t think of me like a sister!” she stuttered, and then immediately looked down at her feet. “But um, thank you, for before. All of it, I mean. I hope I didn’t ruin your shirt. I didn’t mean to get all… Blubbery.”

Although, she may have to admit to herself that she cried longer than necessary, just so he’d keep holding her.

“It’s perfectly understandable, som—”

She waved her hand to cut him off, without looking up from her small round toes. “It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve ever been mugged, Varric. I’ve lived in Kirkwall my entire life, you know. I guess I just… I’ve been worried about that guy for a while now, the anticipation sorta built up and… And it’s really nice to have that weight off my chest.”

“Are you going to tell me what you did to put that weight over your, uh, how you got in this mess?”

“Of course, yeah, but it wasn’t really me that got me in this mess.” He made a skeptical noise and she looked up at him, so she could see if he believed her. “It wasn’t! It’s Brugen, my little brother. Not very little, not like a kid or anything, certainly old enough to know better. He just keeps getting himself in trouble, and, well, the loan sharks know they’re more likely to get his payments from me than him, you know? He doesn’t get steady work.”

Varric shook his head in disapproval. “What did Brugen do to get into so much trouble to begin with?”

She shrugged halfheartedly. “The same as anyone, I suppose. Chasing dreams, trying to make it big. I think this time he was buying information on credit, he was…” She looked down again, unable to continue. She couldn’t bring herself to tell anyone that Brugen thought he had information on a wealthy storage dock to rob, or broke into a Hightown estate, or anything of his other crimes. She was too ashamed, and didn’t want that to be anyone's first impression of him. He was a good man, deep down, he was just trying too hard.

“He does this sort of thing often, then?”

“Often enough. Far more often than I care for.”

“And you just bail him out every time?”

She jerked her head up, defensive. “I do not 'just bail him out’! I can’t very well let them break his knees, now can I? He’d never be able to get honest work if he’s crippled! I’ve talked to him about—”

“Woah, easy there. I wasn’t blaming you. It sounds like you’re doing the best you can. Don’t your parents have anything to say on the matter?”

“They try, but… They don’t know about most of it, to be honest. They’re so busy, and it just seems safer to leave them out of his messes. Easier.”

“Maybe it’s time you stayed out of it as well. Let him clean up his own messes.”

“I know, I know. I’m probably just making it worse, spoiling him or whatever. I just… He’s my little brother, you know? It’s my job to protect him. That’s what older siblings do, isn’t it? Watch out for the rest of them?”

Varric looked away, and she thought she saw him swallow. In a much lower voice, he answered, “Yeah, you’re right. That’s the way it should be. You’re a good sister, Marigold, don’t doubt that.”

She scuffed at the floor with her bare feet for a moment, before moving closer to him. “I can’t thank you enough for what you did tonight. I’ll never be able to pay you back for that. You saved me, and Brugen. You were like the hero in a storybook.”

He laughed at that. “I’m no hero, Marigold. It takes no great courage to pull a crossbow on a man whose dagger is still sheathed. He wasn’t much of a threat.”

“Oh, come on now, Varric. You’ve always been a hero.” She said matter-of-factly. “You saved Kirkwall—you saved all of _Thedas_ , if what I know about the Inquisition is half true! I don’t even like to hear those tales, they’re so awful they give me the chills.”

“None of that wa—”

“And don’t you go saying it wasn’t you. I’ve heard you, and your ‘Hawke’ this and ‘Lavellan’ that. You were there for all of it, you know, fighting along right beside them. You can pass off the credit all you want, but I know the truth of it. Those were equal much your adventures.” She held his eyes, wanting to make sure he was listening good and proper. “And besides, tonight you saved two people, at least, my brother and I, and complain all you want but saving people makes you a hero. _My_ hero.”

She wanted to show him, in some way. She wanted to close the distance between them and squeeze him until he saw himself like she did. If she was being perfectly honest with herself, she really just wanted to thank him by giving him a big ol’ kiss, but that was probably a bad idea. Right?

Joel came bursting in the door just then, wide-eyed and shouting, “Lanna’s pregnant! My wife, she’s pregnant! With a baby!”

A cheer went up across the bar, glasses raised. A group of Joel’s friends stood and buffeted him with celebratory slaps on the back as he continued, broad smile on his face. “That’s why she’s been in such a mood, lately! It didn’t occur to either of us, at our age…”

His voice was drowned out by drunken congratulations from his friends. Marigold watched the crowd, and said to Varric in a murmur just loud enough to hear. “You asked me once, what my dream was. That’s it.”

“Joel getting his wife knocked up?”

She continued as if she hadn’t heard the joke. “Look how happy he is. He already has five mouths to feed, but he’s still celebrating. For months now he’s been worried his marriage is falling apart, when it turned out he and his wife love each other so much she’s gotten with child again.

“It will be hard for them, to find the time and the money for it, but he’s content with his lot in life right now, despite his struggles. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough.

“That’s my dream. Not very ambitious, I know. I hope for things like my widowed sister getting remarried, or my folks being comfortable in their old age. I don’t want fame or power or money, I just want _enough_. Enough to feel safe. A roof over my head, something to eat, too much loving family to know what to do with. Maybe enough saved up to see a healer when they’re sick.” She turned to him. “And if I can keep my fool brother out of trouble, I sorta already have all that.”

~~~~~

Corff and Norah insisted that Marigold take the next day off of work, which was ridiculous. She hadn't even gotten a day off any of the times she'd found a body in one of the group-rooms, why would see need to just because someone harassed her? Nothing bad had even happened to her, in the end.

Still, though, she didn't put up much of a fight; she'd been working so many hours lately, and now that she no longer had that debt to pay off she could use a break.

That debt... Marigold still couldn't believe Varric had just paid it off for her, not even blinking. She didn't even know how to say thank you for something like that. Just one more thing she owed the Viscount of Kirkwall.

There was something else she owed him, too—assurance that it wouldn't happen again.

The sun had already risen in the sky, and was headed back down, by the time she woke. The bedroom that she shared with her two siblings, her niece, and her nephew had no window, so it was easy enough to sleep late. A blessing, given the hours she worked.

She rose, dressed, brushed and pulled up her hair. When she left the bedroom she found her grandmama sitting at the table that took up the main room.

Grandmama looked up. “What are you still doing abed at this hour, girl!”

“I work late, Grandmama, you know that. Where is everyone?”

“Eh?”

“The others, where are they? Did Mama leave for work already?”

“Rosie left. She's cleaning the neighbor's place.”

“Do you know which one?” Marigold had meant to wake in time to help her mama, since she didn't have any maidwork of her own scheduled for today.

“Don't know the name. Human.”

Well that didn't exactly narrow it down. So much for helping Mama. Papa was still getting steady work from that merchant in town, and Aster must be off doing whatever she did with the kids all day. “Is Brugen here? They didn't leave you all alone while I was asleep, did they?”

“Eh? Smile, Marigold. You're so pretty when you smile.”

Marigold smiled. “I am smiling, Grandmama. Here, let me make you some lunch.”

~~~

By the time lunch, or breakfast, was made, Brugen had returned home.

“And where have you been?”

“None of your business.”

“Oh, I think it is. You may have noticed how you didn't get cornered in an alley today,” she said as she stood, and walked him back out the front door with a firm grip on his arm. Grandmama didn't need to hear this.

He shrugged off her hand once they were outside. “Actually... I was expecting a visit today, yes. What happened?”

“It's taken care of.”

His eyes widened. “All of it? No more payments?”

“It's done, Brugen, as of now. And I mean all of it. You aren't to have anything more to do with that lot, do you understand me?”

“It's not that easy, Mar—”

“I don't care. You're done; enough is enough. Did you know someone came and harassed me at work about it? The _viscount_ had to bail me out, Brugen. And now he knows who you are and exactly what you've been up to, so you'd best get yourself on the straight-and-narrow, or his city guards are going to want a word!”

An exaggeration, perhaps, but she had a point to make.

He nodded, then hesitated, then shook his head. “I want to, sis, but I don't know if I can. It's too late to—”

“ _Please_ , Brugen. For me. For you. I don't want to keep hiding things from Mama and Papa, and I don't want to suffer the embarrassment, and I don't want to worry after you all the time... I just want to know you're safe. Tell me you'll break these ties, once and for all.”

He sighed, but eventually nodded. “I will. I'll do it, Marigold, I promise.”

He looked worried, as if it was a costly promise to make, but that was good. It meant he was taking her seriously.

“Alright, then. I don't want to hear one more word from the Coterie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun!


	9. The Viscount's Gardens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I walked into a Versace shop once on vacation, and the employees were really not subtle about following me around as they 'worked' or checked their hair in a mirror. I was only in there a minute, and listen, you're right that I don't belong and I'm not going to buy anything... But that doesn't make me a criminal. I'm just looking. I won't even get my poor people fingerprints on your stuff, I promise.

With some daylight remaining, Marigold decided to walk up to Hightown. She didn't visit Hightown very often, but sometimes it was nice to look at all the shops, even if she couldn't buy anything. And even if all the merchants took one look at her and knew she didn't belong up there, watching her like a hawk in case she meant to steal something.

That part didn't feel good, but she enjoyed herself anyway. They wouldn't leave her alone with the stock, and often tried to make small talk so it (supposedly) wouldn't be obvious they were following her, so she'd amuse herself by asking them all sorts of questions about themselves and the merchandise as she perused. They often had quite a bit to say, once they got going.

Today, however, she was not looking to browse. After talking to Brugen she'd finally finished the book Varric had given her, and she just couldn't wait until she'd normally see him again to tell him how much she loved it, especially the ending. She knew if she tried to meet him at the Hanged Man they'd just end up kicking her out for trying to work, so that just left one option—talking to him at _his_ work.

And why not? He visited her at work nearly every day now. Well, he visited her work, and saw her there. Which was similar. Of course, she was a serving girl, and he was a viscount. But that meant he had an open ear for the citizens of Kirkwall, right? Well, she was a citizen, and she had something to say.

At least, that's what she tried to tell herself, to bolster her courage. She still only made it halfway up the steps to the Viscount's Keep before turning and running right back down. She didn't look up from her feet as she did, too afraid to find out if the eyes she felt watching her were real or imagined.

She stopped at the bottom and looked back up at the steps. It was silly, wasn't it? He was always glad to see her, and complained often about the tedium of his job, so she couldn't imagine he'd be displeased at her stopping by. Except, she could imagine it, and it was terrible.

It was already the end of the day. The shadows were getting long. He might not even be in his office at this hour.

So it couldn't hurt to check, right?

Right.

She nodded, and took a step.

She sighed, and turned to leave. It would just have to wait. She headed back towards the market, and, ultimately, Lowtown.

“Marigold?”

“Varric!” she squeaked, stopping in her tracks. He was walking down the street in her direction, carrying a package wrapped in cloth and tied with twine. “What are you doing here?”

“Just picking something up,” he said, lifting his bundle. It looked heavy, for its size.

“Don't you have servants for that?” she asked as he caught up to her.

“Some things are better to do yourself. Are you often in this side of town?”

“No, not often, of course. It's just nice to get out of Lowtown from time to time. And since I had the day off, I figured...” She shrugged. “Actually, um, the reason I had some free time today is because I finished _Hard in Hightown_.”

His broad grin was wide enough to make her heart flutter. “Is that so? Tell me, what did you think?” He asked as he began to stroll in the direction he'd been headed.

“I just _loved_ it,” she gushed, grabbing his forearm in emphasis as she fell in step with him. “It was like when you tell your stories! Only I couldn't ask any questions, so it was much more mysterious.”

He chuckled. “Well, ask away then.”

She asked him what section of Hightown he'd pictured for the opening scene as they walked. She lamented over how she wished she could meet Guardsman Donnen Brennokovic in real life as she wondered where they were going. “I can't believe I never figured out who did it. You kept mentioning the smell of lilacs, it was like you were practically telling me!” she said as they passed through an archway.

“That's the best kind of foreshadowing. Not enough to give it away, but enough to make it obvious in hindsight. It's also handy for keeping things interesting on the second reading.”

She didn't answer, halting her steps as she saw the armed guards on either side of an entrance, and the foliage beyond. “Where are we?”

“The Viscount's Gardens.”

He walked further into the space on the even grass, motioning for her to follow. She was almost afraid to step on it; she'd never seen so many plants all in one place before, green as far as she could see, and she didn't want to hurt any of them. Having spent her life in Kirkwall she woke up every day to kirkstone and dust, occasionally treating herself to a trip to the Wounded Coast for a change of scenery—rocks and mud.

But she followed him as led her to a bench, and she spun herself around, looking at everything at once. “It's _huge_.” she exclaimed, and he laughed. 

“Wait here. I’m going to go put this away,” he said, lifting the package. “I’ll be right back.”

She looked around as she waited, though she didn’t stray far from the bench. Some distance away she saw a gazebo. Nearby was a statue fountaining the cleanest looking water she'd ever seen, catching it in a pool. She reached out to touch the water, just to make sure it was real. 

When she heard Varric return, she asked without looking away from the water, “How does this work? Is it magic?” 

“Honestly? I have no idea. But I don’t think so.”

She turned to him to ask more questions, but she saw that he hadn’t returned empty handed. He was holding out a heavily damaged book towards her. 

“What’s this?”

“ _The Tale of the Champion_ —my personal copy.”

The book looked like it had gone on an adventure itself. She flipped to a couple pages slowly, afraid they’d fall out otherwise. It looked like it had been dropped in water more than once. Possibly related to the burn marks. There was writing on some of the pages, as well as what looked to be bloodstains. 

“Why… Varric, Why does it look like someone _stabbed_ this book?” she asked, baffled. 

He laughed wholeheartedly, as if he’d been expecting the question. “I’ll explain later.”

“Well, thank you. I’ll try to read it straight away. I’d promise to return it in good condition, but that would take a miracle,” she teased with a closed smile.

He laughed again. “That copy was dragged over half of Ferelden by a very determined Seeker of Truth. As was I, as a matter of fact. I’m sure it will survive being read one more time.”

She smiled and looked around her again, at the plants and statues and the fountain. Changing the subject, she asked, “What is it used for? This whole garden, I mean.”

“Right now? Nothing.”

“What? Nothing?” She turned to look at him. “It looks like a mighty lot of work goes into this place; it's a shame if no one gets to enjoy it.”

“It's a part of the Viscount Estate. Comes with the title. When I first took office I meant to open it up to the public, but...” Varric shrugged. “It proved to be more difficult than I thought. Some of the doors lead directly to places the public isn't supposed to see, so it came with an increased cost to security, as well as some remodeling, and maintenance... It just wasn't a priority at the time, with so many other things that needed changing. So, I just let the staff keep doing what they were doing.”

“You don't even use it for yourself? It seems like a lovely place to write.”

“Nah. I barely have the time, and besides—it's far too neat and organized for my tastes.” Marigold looked around at the perfectly trimmed hedges and white flowers, all in a row. She thought it was beautiful, but she supposed she could see what he meant. “What it needs is some color. Maybe some little orange flowers to keep the bugs away.”

She laughed. “Well now, you didn't have to bring me all the way here—of course I'll give you some of my flowers, hon!”

“Actually, I was hoping you wouldn't give them to me so much as plant them yourself, along with any other flowers you might like.”

“I—You want me to be a gardener? Oh no, I couldn't, I don't know the first thing about gardening! I told you before, marigolds are real easy to take care of. I bet this whole place would just wither and die if it depended on me.”

He smiled, as if there was some joke only he knew. “Somehow, I doubt you'd let that happen. Don't forget, there was a time when you didn't know anything about serving, and now you work for the best tavern in Kirkwall.”

She laughed. “You know you're the only one that thinks that.”

“Everyone else is wrong. So, what do you say?”

She didn't want to disappoint him, and the offer did sound lovely, but could she really work a third job on top of her other two? “Thank you, Varric, but... Is it something that needs to be done every day? Like, would I need to come in and water every morning, or something?”

“Don't worry about any of that,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “That's what Weeds is for; he's the head gardener, or landscaper, or whatever he's calling himself these days. I'll introduce you. He can tell you more than you'll ever need to know about plants, and where to get them. I'll be keeping him on for the day-to-day stuff, I just need a ‘woman's touch’ to brighten up the place.”

She felt herself blush, embarrassed by his phrasing. “Well, it would be nice to get out of Lowtown once in a while and learn something new, so long as I don't have to quit the Hanged Man...”

It would also be nice to have an excuse to be in Varric's home every week, even if he never used the garden.

Varric beamed, and dragged her further into the gardens to find Weeds. He was an older human, skinny and tall. He wore a hat made of straw, and dirt like it was a second skin. She asked Weeds for his proper name, of course, but he didn't tell her—the man seemed resigned to his nickname. They talked about when he'd be available and how often she’d come in and what he'd teach her. Though Weeds was still officially in charge, Varric made it clear that Marigold was to call the shots, which made her feel awkward. She'd never told anyone what to do before, other than her siblings.

Then, at the end, they discussed her compensation. It surprised her; it seemed like an awful lot for playing in the dirt a few times a week. She tried to tell them it was too much, but Weeds said that working for someone in Hightown was different than in Lowtown. Even so, Marigold was sure that Varric had told Weeds what to offer. After last night, he must be offering her this job out of pity, thinking she needed the money.

It was far too late to decline, of course. She'd already agreed to it, and set a schedule, and everything else. She would just have to make sure Varric got his money's worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super excited for the next chapter :D Time to try my hand at some proper action scenes!


	10. A Long Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took _forever_ to write. Only partially because it ended up so long that I had to split it into two chapters. Mostly because I'm not very comfortable writing action scenes!

It was late. Very late. So late it was early, in fact. Corff was snoozing against the bar, all the drunks were passed out upstairs or gone home, and even Marigold had left a while ago. Only Ronauld remained to play a quiet game of Diamond Back with him, but when he called it quits and bought a room upstairs Varric was forced to leave, or sit in silence.

Avoiding silence was the reason he so frequently sacrificed sleep for company. His estate was too big, too empty, too quiet. Stark walls and polite servants, and completely devoid of personality. Though the gardens were becoming more lively.

He missed his friends, and worried about them, all off fighting for their various causes. Those that were still alive, anyway. He had no family worth mentioning.

He never thought he’d miss being dragged all across Thedas, through heat and cold, and swamps and deserts, and cliffs and caves, and rain and red lyrium, always fearing for his life… And he didn’t, not really. But there were certain parts worth reminiscing, even if the experience as a whole was unsavory. Always being surrounded by new people and old friends (or at least they were old friends by the end of it). Watching the bustle in the great hall from his place by the fire. Listening to the Inquisitor’s inner circle squabble, and getting to know the agents. Hawke…

With a deep sigh, he stood up and pulled Bianca up onto his back. She was beginning to weigh heavily on his shoulders. He’d been carrying her around all these years, but lately it just seemed like too much. Some days he felt like leaving her on his mantle, just to be free of the weight, but he couldn’t; that would leave him vulnerable.

Still, he shifted uncomfortably under the strain as he exited the Hanged Man, only to be startled by Marigold standing outside the door. Her arms were crossed against the slight chill of the night, and she was watching the roads with an uncharacteristically perturbed look on her face.

“Marigold? I thought you went home.”

She kept her eyes on the streets, still looking irritated. He’d noticed that she always smiled when looking at people, but when not focusing on anything in particular she was more willing to let other emotions cross her face. He wondered if she sometimes avoided eye contact just so she wouldn’t have to smile when she didn’t feel like it.

“I was supposed to. Mikah is late.”

“Very late, it seems. Why didn’t you come back inside to wait?”

“We… Fought, earlier. Me and Mikah, not me and you, obviously. Anyway, if I went back in, he might think I was intentionally trying to inconvenience him because I’m still upset, or something. I don’t know.” She sighed, and constricted her arms tighter. “But he’s never this late. It must be intentional, right? Or something happened. But I’m sure he’s fine. I can’t believe he’s being so petty. Perhaps I _should_ still be upset.”

She obviously _was_ still upset, but he had enough sense not to point it out. “I’m sorry you two had a fight,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. Giving Marigold relationship advice left a thoroughly unpleasant weight in the pit of his stomach for reasons he chose to ignore. “You two have been together a while, you seem to know each other well, I’m sure it’ll all work out—”

“Me and Mikah are _not_ together. Never have been, I mean, not that we broke up or anything.” She pinned him with a defensive glare that looked entirely out of place on her face. Varric resolved then and there to only ever make her happy. After a moment she schooled her face into a tight smile and looked away again, as if self-conscious. Tapping her foot, she added, “I’m, uh, not with anyone, actually.”

“Ah. It seemed like… I guess I assumed.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not the only one, apparently. He just walks me home, is all. His whole family is friends with my whole family—we watched out for each other, back in Darktown. He lives south of here, and works on the docks, and my family lives north of here, so the Hanged Man and my home are both on his way to work, more or less. And I leave here before dawn, and that’s when he has to get to work, so it just worked out. It’s safer not to have to walk alone, you know?” She sighed, letting out all her ire. Her foot stilled, and she smiled at him, looking sad. It was worse than the glare. “I guess I never thought I owed him anything for protecting me. Certainly not… That.”

Varric’s hand clenched as he swallowed the urge to demand just how far Mikah had pushed her, trying to get something from Marigold that she didn’t want to give. It was none of his business. Not that that would stop him from introducing Mikah to Bianca the next time they crossed paths. “You don’t owe him anything, Marigold,” he said, struggling to keep his voice level.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know, I said as much. That’s what caused the fight, after all.”

He wanted to correct her, to tell her that saying ‘no’ wasn’t to blame for the incident, but instead he said, “You know, I actually think Red mentioned a new patrol was going to start walking this route soon, around closing time. Maybe if you time it right, you can walk behind them from now on.”

“Really?” she asked, skeptical. He nodded.

It wasn't true, not yet, but he'd have a talk with the Guard Captain tomorrow. “I’ll stay and wait with you, in the meantime.”

He'd have a few things to say to Mikah when he got here, too.

“No, it’s alright. I’ll be fine. I’m sure he’ll be here soon. Please, go on home. Kirkwall can’t have its viscount so sleep deprived all the time, now. You've been staying awfully late, lately.” Varric eyed the shadowed pathways around them, uncertain, until she repeated, “I’ll be fine. Promise. Corff is right inside, I’ll run on in if there’s any trouble.”

He reached back and touched Bianca, thinking. He wanted to insist on staying, but it didn’t seem right to pressure her to accept his company when she had already dealt with some jerk doing the same thing. “Are you sure?” When she smiled and nodded, he gave in. “Alright, have it your way. Goodnight, Marigold.”

“Goodnight, Varric.”

~~~

It was a short time later, when he was at the base of a long staircase leading up to Hightown, that he realized he was being stupid.

He was going to worry about her the whole night, now, until he knew she made it home and away from her sleazy ‘friend’. And when would he even know? Tomorrow, maybe, if he had time to come back? Which was doubtful; he expected tomorrow’s council session to last most of the day.

He should have offered to walk her home. He would have thought of that, if he’d been sleeping properly. She’d protest, of course, but only because she didn’t like to impose. He didn’t mind, though, and he was in no hurry to get back to his empty bedroom.

He put a foot on the first stair, but before he shifted any weight onto it, he turned himself around. He was just going to have to make sure she was safe; nothing else would do.

He picked up his pace and retraced the familiar path back to the Hanged Man. When he got there, though, she was no longer waiting outside the door.

Good. That must mean Mikah finally came by. Varric could go home now.

… Unless Mikah hadn’t come by, and she’d gotten tired of waiting and went home by herself.

The sky was already starting to lighten the tiniest bit. It would be dawn soon. The streets tended to be clear of trouble before the workers woke with the sun to go about their legitimate business. She’d be safe, now. She’d spent her whole life in Kirkwall, after all, she could take care of herself.

These were all things he told himself as his feet carried him north. He didn’t know where she lived, but it couldn’t hurt to take a stroll around that side of town, keeping an eye out for trouble like he’d done on a hundred midnight patrols with Hawke.

Unfortunately, it wasn't long before he heard shouting, and the distant ring of steel being drawn. A fist clenched around his heart when he heard Marigold's voice, loud and clear.

“—Well now, that has nothing to do with me, so you just leave me out of it!”

Varric strained to hear the rest of the conversation as he took off running, drawing his weapon, the pounding of his steps almost drowning out a man's rough response.

“You made it your business when you couldn't leave well enough alone,” he managed to hear.

“And just what is hurting us going to get you? Nothing, that's what. No money in that. You got paid, just go, and leave us alone.”

Varric rounded a corner at full speed—and cursed as he met a dead end. He could hear the voices on the other side of the wall, but would have to find a way around.

“That's not how it works, Marigold, and you know it. We have a name to protect.”

“... _Pryce?_ Little Pryce from around the bend, is that you? Do your sisters know you've thrown your lot in with this group? Protecting a 'name' by hurting innocent women and children?”

There was a growl, and she yelped, and Varric peered around a corner, spying them at last. Thankful for the predawn light, he saw that Marigold was surrounded by five fighters and two archers. 'Little Pryce,' who appeared to only be a couple of years younger than Marigold herself, was standing behind her, holding her by an arm wrenched behind her back.

“Your brother isn't innocent, Mar—” _Thunk_. A large bolt buried itself in the heart of one of the archers, puncturing platemail.

Varric emerged, planting his feet as he released another arrow, taking out the second archer before they had their longbow fully drawn.

Cries of 'Get him!' rang out, and five fighters charged at him, brandishing their weapons.

“Time to say 'Good morning', Bianca.” Varric released a volley of arrows into the alley between Marigold and himself, and in the blink of an eye five men fell to the ground before they reached him, some injured, others dead.

Blood seeped across the stone alley, and Varric raised his crossbow again, but hesitated when he saw that Pryce now held a knife to Marigold's throat. Varric's fingers froze in fear, in a way they'd only done against Terror Demons in the past. Marigold looked... Oddly calm, considering. Like this was no more than an unpleasant turn of events.

A painful heartbeat passed, then two, the men staring each other down. Both calculating, Pryce trying to figure out how to use Marigold to escape with his life, Varric caring only about saving her. Pryce pressed his dagger harder against Marigold's skin, and she bit her lip to smother a cry. As blood welled up along the tip of the blade, Pryce said clearly, “Alright, this is how this is going to g—”

 _Thump_. Varric's bolt flew towards Marigold and embedded itself in Pryce's skull before she screamed, her free hand flying up to shield herself. Varric jogged towards her as she stood, stunned, just for a second or two. Marigold turned and squatted down, looking at the face of her would-be abductor. While her back was turned, Varric pulled out a dagger and took the time to dispatch the injured foes that were still clinging to life.

As he neared her, he saw her timidly reach out to touch the arrow protruding from the center of the man's forehead. “Wow. That was a really good shot, Varric. He was so close; right behind me. You didn't even take off a piece of my ear or anything, like in the tales.”

Varric was taken aback by the way she spoke calmly, casually. It was so unlike the last time he’d seen her in danger. He felt dazed, and could only watch as she reached out to pull down a mask that was covering the lower half of the man's face. She tsked, as if the thug were no more than a child caught stealing sweets. Then she stood, sniffing and briefly swiping tears from her eyes. When she faced him, Varric could see a drop of blood trailing down from her neck into the cotton of her bodice.

He reached into a belt pouch, frantically pulling out a handkerchief and holding it against her wound. Luckily, it didn't look very deep. “Shit. Are you okay?”

She compliantly tilted her head for him, not protesting his ministrations. She was shaking under his touch. “Oh, of course. I'm fine. Thank you, though. You've saved me, again. I wasn't too sure how to get out of that one. Usually a stern word will make bullies rethink their actions. I think I might've been able to work something out with them. I usually do. I can't believe Pryce would do this... Do you know I bought him his first ale, when he became a man? His poor sisters are going to be heartbroken. I should tell them myself, bring them some flowers...”

Varric held the white silk, now red with blood, against her throat as she rambled nervously. He could feel his fingers shaking from relief and fatigue. He also felt anger building in him. Anger that because of this enigmatic shit-hole town she'd been through situations like this so many times that she knew how to keep her head. Anger that he'd left her alone without walking her home to begin with, getting her in this mess. Anger at Pryce for not using the opportunity Hawke gave him over a decade ago to escape a life of crime. Anger at her for being so damned forgiving of those who had wronged her, when he had to hold back the urge to kick Pryce's rotting corpse. Anger at her nug-licking brother for being the cause of all of this.

And anger at himself for her blood on his fingertips not being enough to distract him from how pretty her neck was in the early morning light, or how good she smelled, or how close his face was to hers.

“I thought you said your brother went clean,” he cut off her babbling, unable to keep the irritation from his voice. “This is his doing again?”

Her fingers brushed his as she took over holding the handkerchief so that she could look him in the eyes. “He did! He left them all behind, honest, but I guess they aren't willing to let him go. Pryce said that they aren't allowed to leave, which is rubbish.”

Varric turned to scowl at a nearby body, nudging it with a boot. For the first time, he noticed the heraldry most of the men were wearing. “Coterie... Of course it is. You should have said something sooner. Your young friend here is right—they don't just let you walk away.”

“But my brother doesn't know anything, he was just a grunt! What could they gain from hurting him? Or me?” She gasped suddenly, grabbing his arm, eyes wide. “Brugen! They're still after him, aren't they? Oh, please, you've got to help me find him! Oh, Maker, what if we're too late? Do you think they've already—”

“No, _shh_ , it'll be alright.” He covered her hand with his palm, regretting his harsh words. “They wouldn't have been looking for you if they knew where to find him. That means he's still safe somewhere, for now.”

“Right. Okay, that makes sense. So we find him... Then what? He's not safe at home. He's not safe anywhere! It's not like I can ask the Guard to watch over him at all hours.”

No, but Varric could.

He was about to say as much when she added, “We're going to have to run away together! I've never left Kirkwall before...”

For a moment visions flooded Varric—but no, when she said 'we' she meant her brother and herself, not him, of course. “First things first: we need to find the kid.”

She nodded, determined. “Right. I know some places he hangs out, if he doesn't know he's in danger yet. I think I know where he might go, if he knew he had to hide...”

“Good,” he answered firmly. “You can tell me all about them while I walk you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a quest where you help someone escape the Coterie because they won't let them quit... That's what this is based on. I don't remember the name and I can't seem to find it right now, though I know I could in-game if EA would let me sign into DA2 to check?? But For some reason they won't let me?? I haven't changed any settings since the last time I played, I never had to sign in before... Oh well. I guess I'll finish that Fenris romance some other time.


	11. Well, Shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to note that we're about halfway through this fic, folks!

“Walk me home? No, I'm going with you.”

“Andraste's ass you are.”

“No, I don't mean—I'm not trying to be brave or anything, Varric. I'm _not_ brave. But how will Brugen know you're on his side? He's never met you. I need to be there, to talk to him.”

Everything in Varric urged him to refuse her. He was not going to let her just walk into danger again. But she had a point: he had no idea how he was supposed to find a single dwarf in Kirkwall in just one morning, without her help.

After an agonizing moment, he let out a strangled growl of frustration. “Alright. Alright. Assume he knows he's in trouble. Where do we start?”

“Well... If he knows he wouldn't go home, or to Alin's. He wouldn't want to endanger anyone he cares about. He doesn't have any work right now, either, so...”

She trailed off, thinking fretfully. Varric took the time to check on her neck injury, and was comforted to see that the bleeding had stopped. It was about time _something_ went right tonight.

She finally answered, sounding apologetic. “All I can think of are the passages down by in sewers in Darktown. He used to go exploring down there when he was little. He'd go and get lost, just to find his way back out. It terrified my mother. He found some old chambers from Imperium days, once. No one knows the tunnels better.”

Meaning, no one would be able to find him if he didn't want to be found. Great.

“Of course it's the sewers.” Varric tried to rub away the pounding in his temples caused by lack of sleep, among other things. “After you.”

~~~

They 'borrowed' some lanterns they came across, without asking permission but with every intention of returning them. The sun was coming out, but very little light managed to makes its way all the way down the ventilation shafts to the tunnels. He let her lead the way to the entrance near where her family used to live, before taking point and telling her to stay well behind him. Not that it would be enough to keep her safe on this fool's errand, the way she kept shouting.

“ _Brugen! It's me, Marigold! Your sister! Please come out, Brugen!_ ”

As her echoes faded away, he started, “Marigold, I don't think—”

“I have to!” she snapped. “I know it's dangerous but I have to keep yelling, we'll never find him on foot. Our only hope is for him to hear me, and come out on his own.”

If he was even down here at all.

Varric could see the same stubborn set to her eyebrows that Hawke and Lavellan were prone to, though, revoking any argument. So he sighed, and, with a gesture, beckoned her to continue.

Her shouts gradually became farther spaced, her pleas shorter, as she grew tired and began to lose hope. She moved to take the passage to their left, following the pattern they'd adopted to prevent them from getting lost, but he stopped her. “Not that way.”

She looked at him, confused. “But—”

He nodded to the ceiling above her, and she raised her lantern. She scurried back when she saw the symbol high above her head, and he couldn't help but chuckle.

“Relax, it's just paint. The Guard uses it to mark areas that are... Occupied.” Meaning, that were claimed by too many or too powerful villains, so that any attempt to clear them out would result in far too many casualties.

“But what if he's in there?”

“He's not, trust me.” Not alive, anyway. “Come on, this way.”

She looked down the tunnel, as if she'd be able to see the people down that way, but she followed without further protest. “So the Guard patrols down here, now? Maybe there's a group down here? We could use the help.”

“It'd be nice,” he agreed noncommittally. It was unlikely, scarcely worth hoping for. He'd been hoping to run into just about anyone who worked for him on the way to the sewers, to send a message, but they'd lose too much time if he went all the way back to his estate to alert the Guard or his contacts.

By the time Marigold's voice was rough from shouting into the darkness, Varric was rethinking that decision. In fact, he was reconsidering the whole excursion. He hadn't realized just how extensive the tunnels really were—it was surprising to find there was any part of this town he didn't know like the back of his hand. It felt like they were probably halfway to the Deep Roads by now. He probably could have brought an entire retinue of guardsmen to comb this maze, and never find Brugen. How was he going to convince Marigold to give up the search?

“Brugen!” she called once again, coughing dryly.

He opened his mouth to say something, but to his astonishment, the echo of her voice didn't come back alone. Faintly, he heard, _“Mare? Marigold, d—”_

With a gasp, Marigold looked at Varric, as if to confirm that he'd heard it too. Listening closely to the distant call, Varric froze. Marigold did not.

“ ** _Brugen! Brugen!_** ” she shouted as she took off running in the general direction of the sound, completely drowning it out.

“Marigold, wait! Stop!” Varric cursed as he ran after the foolish woman. Catching up to her, he grabbed her arm to spin her and clamped a large hand over her mouth, shushing her. They both listened intently, but no further cries came.

He slowly removed his hand from her lips, and she whispered, “That was him, Varric, I heard him.”

He shook his head, quietly replying, “I heard _something_ , Marigold, but I've got a bad feeling about this.”

“It was _him_ ,” she insisted.

He shook his head again, and took a step back from her pleading eyes, needing space to think. This could be a trap. Even the rats probably knew Marigold's name by now, she'd shouted it so many times.

Free now, she took slow, absent-minded steps towards the sound. Not trying to escape Varric, only staring off distractedly.

He recognized the unforgettable _click_ of a pressure plate the moment she stepped on it.

He had just enough time to react as she stepped off, triggering the trap. He jumped, tossing aside his lantern and shielding her body with his own as he threw them to the ground. He felt the blistering heat of the explosion on his back, heard the roar of the flames and Marigold's shriek die before he rolled off of her.

Both lying prone, she was staring at him with shock-wide eyes.

“RUN!” he bellowed over the ringing in his ears, and he never believed in Andraste's sweet mercy more than the moment he saw Marigold scramble to her feet and run for safety. She was yelling, but she hadn't hesitated, for once hadn't argued.

Now, to make sure he lived long enough to give her a proper head start.

As he heard the cries of an ambush, he took quick assessment of the situation: He wasn't on fire, which was good. He was also alone, which was bad. On his feet now, Bianca was in his hands instantly. The brass of her trigger was scorching hot, but she, too, was not on fire.

He scanned the area for a target. A handful of Coterie warriors were charging out of a hallway, swords and torches raised. Four archers were firing at him, their shots whizzing overhead as they aimed in the dark at what they assumed was a human-sized target. There was a rogue sneaking up behind him, hoping to catch Varric unawares, but first he had to make sure there no—ah! There.

Varric fired into the mage as soon as he spotted the glow of a forming spell. The bolt tore through cloth and into the spellcaster's belly; not the cleanest kill, but mage reflexes were much better at shielding their heads than their abdomen. Hawke and Lavellan were both guilty of that.

He spun, firing his self-repeating crossbow into the rogue so that he could retreat in that direction. He would have to lead them down an unknown tunnel and hope nothing came up behind him—he wasn't about to head the same direction as Marigold.

He crouched as he moved, running towards the unknown until he was completely engulfed in darkness and out of reach of the archers. But they, with their lanterns and shortbows, were well within range of a weapon like Bianca.

As fast as he was, the fastest of the fighters were upon him by the time he took out the four archers, a bolt in each throat. He had just enough time to release his bayonet and block the downward blow of the first attack, using the heft of his weapon to push the enemy blade aside and bury his own in flesh.

His weapon snagged on the man's ribs and he tried to withdraw it, slowing him down. A second attacker slashed at him and he twisted away, finally freeing his bayonet but only managing to avoid the brunt of the attack. The tip of the sword still swiped him, cutting through his shirt and skin as if it were nothing. Varric ignored the sharp pain in his side, and the blood running from it, focusing instead on forcing his weapon into the fighter's sternum. He twisted the blade before kicking the man off, and staggered back as the man fell.

 _Click_.

Varric stilled, unable to move his foot from the pressure plate without triggering the trap. Unable to retreat from the horde of men still rushing towards him.

Well, there were worse ways to die. A fiery explosion was almost traditional, in Kirkwall. Hawke would be proud that he went out with a bang.

Knowing he wouldn't survive long enough to need to worry about reloading, he used the last of his ammunition to unload a volley into his approaching attackers. Some fell, some were injured, and yet more kept coming.

As soon as they were close enough he leapt from his spot, and the sound of the inferno was punctured by screams.

Not enough. Too many would survive the blast, the arrows. Crumpled and dazed, he could already hear rally cries. His body was stunned, not responding to his commands, and he was tired to his bones. He held a breath and waited for someone to finish him off.

But the backstab never came, and the ringing in his ears was replaced with ringing steel. Were they fighting amongst themselves?

He somehow found the strength to climb back to his feet, raising Bianca out of habit more than anything else. Around him, he saw the City Guard making quick work of the remaining Coterie. As the guards split up to check the surrounding area for more trouble, Donnic strolled up, covered in more blood than would be expected from just this small, one-sided skirmish.

“Figures you'd show up after I've already done most of the work,” Varric joked, wincing at the pain in his ribs. He pressed a hand to his wound, remembering that he ought to be stopping the flow of blood. Donnic caught the dwarf as he staggered, and signaled a medic.

“Yes, well, we couldn't let you have all the fun,” Donnic replied.

A medic arrived, and began examining Varric, cutting away part of his shirt and winding bandages around his torso. After they declared that there was no shrapnel or broken bones and it would heal fine, Varric asked, “What were you doing down here, anyway?”

“We were clearing out an Occupied area a few turns back. We've been keeping our eye on them for a while. A bunch of kidnappers and thieves, all banded together in a new faction of organized crime. We managed to work an informant into their network, and fed them some nonsense about using paint symbols to mark dangerous areas in the sewers. Made them think we were too scared to go after them, let them get cocky. Then we waited until our informant assured they'd have a late-night gig, and took them on while they were napping. What were you doing down here at his hour? Don't you have a city to run?”

Varric sighed at his own stupidity. And that of his spies. “I was trying to save a kid from the Coterie. Judging by the way they had their entrance booby-trapped, I walked right into a Coterie den instead. ”

“Confirmed,” spoke a guard as he walked up and came to a halt, tone disciplined.

“Report,” Donnic ordered.

“We found a barracks down that passage. Found some offices, too. From the paperwork, it looks like this was a headquarters.”

Donnic rose an eyebrow to Varric, “Of course you'd just happen upon Coterie HQ while out for a stroll.”

Varric couldn't decide between laughing or swearing. “I didn't even know the Coterie had one, outside of the Blooming Rose. I need to have a word with some of my contacts.”

“There's more,” spoke up the guard. “We found a dwarf; he appears to be a prisoner. He says his name is 'Brugen'.”

This time relief did cause Varric to laugh. “So the bastard is here after all. He's alright?”

The guardsman nodded. “He looks fine to me, just roughed up a little. He's being questioned currently; I'm sure they'll bring him out in a moment.”

“Good work,” Donnic said, dismissing the guard, who nodded and took his leave.

“Not that I'm complaining, but how did you find me? You ran across Marigold, right? Is she safe?”

“See for yourself,” Donnic replied, nodding back towards the entrance to the tunnel. Marigold was standing there, wearing a human-sized cloak like a blanket, speaking to a guard. She was covered in dirt and dust, and looked small and shaken, but otherwise unscathed. “There was no time for introductions, but I take it that's her.”

Varric answered, quietly. “Yeah, she's the one.” After a moment, he added, “I need you to tell your wife to arrange the patrols to walk from The Hanged Man to the east side of Lowtown at closing time.”

Donnic barked a laugh. “Yeah, right. So she can take it out on me? She just got done with the new patrol schedule. You want the change, you can ask her yourself.”

“It was worth a shot. Still on for Wicked Grace this week?”

Donnic nodded. Brugen made his appearance then, led out of the barracks by flanking guards. He looked to be about a decade younger than Marigold, and beaten, and like he'd been crying. He was holding himself up alright, considering. Marigold saw him immediately, running towards him with a shout. This time, no one tried to stop her.

“She ran right into the occupied area, screaming for help just as we were finishing the last of them. Scared the pants off us.”

Watching the crying and squeezing hugs of the family reunion, it took a few seconds for Guardsman Donnic's words to sink in. “Wait, she ran _in to_ —” Varric stuttered to a stop, at a loss for words. She'd walked into a hornet's nest, and then ran away to _try_ to find bees to stir up? “Excuse me.”

He marched towards Marigold, not a clue what he intended to say about the matter, but he'd damn well had something to say. As he approached, he heard her shriek, “ _You turned yourself in?_ ”

“I knew they weren't going to stop coming after me, Mare,” answered Brugen, sounding miserable. “I didn't want any more people to get hurt, so I figured I'd just let them do whatever they were going to do.”

“Do whatever—you _know_ what they had planned, Brugen! They were going to make an example of you! You don't, just... It's like you were afraid of being stung, so attacked a hornet's nest with a jar of bees!” Varric barked a laugh, unable to hold it back as she used nearly the same analogy; she probably adopted it from one of his stories. He regretted his laugh almost instantly, when her protective fury was turned on him. “You think this is _funny_?”

He held up his hands in a placating gesture, still laughing. “Hey, I'm not the enemy here.”

“That's right, you're not. If I ever get my hands on those Coterie bastards, _uurgh_.” She clenched her fists, seething, and then glanced around her. She sobered instantly, looking at the fallen bodies the guards were piling up to the side. “Oh. Right. Well... I wish things had gone differently, but I can't say I'm not glad the two of you and all the guardsmen are alright. You are alright, right?”

She was looking at Varric's bandages. As concerned as she looked, Varric couldn't manage to break his grin, enjoying seeing a peek of the feelings Marigold kept hidden behind her smiles.

Then two guardsmen cut in front of him, grabbing Brugen by his arms. “Brugen Kadret, you're under arrest.”

“What?” Brugen asked, flabbergast. “No, I was the _prisoner_. You just set me free, you just rescued me!”

Oddly, Marigold passively stepped back without protest, an indecipherable expression on her face.

“Yeah, well, consider yourself un-freed. Let's go.”

“What's going on here?” Varric demanded.

“We got an anonymous report that this young man was involved in a large caravan theft in the Gallows a month ago.”

“What, in the last ten minutes since you let me out of that cage?” Understanding came faster to Brugen than to Varric, the younger dwarf gasping. “ _Marigold_?”

“Anonymous,” repeated the guard, shoving Brugen's shoulder. Varric looked to Marigold, and identified the look on her face as her brother was pulled away. Resolve, and guilt.

“Marigold... You had your brother arrested?”

She didn't look at him. “There's a lot of men on the floor of this tunnel, but I know it's not all of them. Brugen will be tossed behind a lock and key. I know in the stories people get killed in those cells, but I've been to the dungeon plenty of times, and they aren't so bad. The Guard Captain knows what she's doing. When I'm sure the Coterie isn't interested in him anymore... Well, then some 'anonymous' person can come forward with evidence that proves he was actually clear on the other side of town at the time of that attack, and this whole thing was just some silly miscommunication.”

“And in the meantime, the Guard will watch over him at all hours .”

She met his eyes with a small, self-conscious shrug. “It'll be hard to convince my folks to go along with it, but they'll understand. They always do. He'll be angry with me, of course, but it's a small price to pay. You won't tell, will you?”

He shook his head, more in disbelief than an answer. “Your whole family is too damned self-sacrificing. It's a wonder any of you have made it this long.”

She laughed, an honest laugh, as if he'd made a joke. “Well now, that's the only reason we have survived!”

“You went running right into a tunnel I told you was dangerous—”

“You told me it was _occupied_. Meaning, there were people in there, people who could probably help when I sure couldn't.”

“You knew what I meant, Marigold!” He was raising his voice. He really shouldn't be raising his voice. “I can't believe you'd just run into a den of thieves, looking for a favor! You could have been killed!”

“I ran into a den of people, Varric. People, even thieves, have more than one motivation in life you know!” she chided, her hands waving emphatically as she spoke. “Some of the lowest scum in this city still walk their elders to the Chantry every week, or would like to say they saved a damsel in distress. They aren't going to get anything by slitting my throat, or even going through my pockets; they can tell that just by looking at me. But saving a viscount, now, there's some coin in that.”

Varric was becoming increasingly aware that they had an audience. Lowering his voice, he said, “Men like that will do more to a stray woman than pick her pockets, Marigold. You don't know what they would have done—”

“Oh, stop it!” she snapped, for the second time this night. This was certainly not a side of her he'd seen before. “I'm not a child. I'm sick of everyone babying me all the time, like I'm some innocent! I'm not naïve; do you really think Mikah is the first man who, who... I've lived in this town my whole life, Varric. I spent years right outside these sewers! I work at the Hanged Man. Honestly, do you really think I haven't seen things, haven't lived through my own nightmares? Do you think I've never had to do things I'm not proud of?”

Varric's jaw was slack, stunned into silence. Red with unspent tears, he couldn't help but notice how green her eyes were. Coming to his senses, he glared at the too-quiet guards, standing around waiting. The lot of them suddenly found something to do, or a wall to inspect.

“I'm sorry, Varric, I didn't mean, it's just... It's been a long night. Morning. Whatever.”

He managed a meager chuckle. “You can say that again.”

“I guess what I was trying to say was that there’s two types of folks in Darktown: those that can't trust a soul, and those that learn to believe in the good in people, again and again, even when they disappoint you. Only one kind ever makes it out.”

He nodded, too tired to think too hard about what she was saying. “I'm sorry, Marigold. I was worried about you, before. The whole time I was fighting, all I could think about was you. You getting to safety, I mean, so finding out you put yourself in danger again...”

“To save _you_ ,” she teased, smiling again. Choking up, she added, “Thank you. For all of this, and for being okay. I so glad you're okay, Varric. I was so scared. And you were so outnumbered... You're a lucky dwarf.”

She leaned forward, then, and gently kissed his cheek. She said goodnight and left with a guard who had offered to walk her home.

Maybe he _was_ lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is sooo long. And the next one? Absolutely tiny. Sorry guys! I tried to split the difference, but it just wouldn't break up nicely like that. 
> 
> I also wanted to mention something I learned in writing this chapter, but it got long. So, if you're interested, it's [here](http://redinkofshame.tumblr.com/post/151197497525/writing-action-scenes).


	12. And a Longer Day

Varric sent a runner ahead of him, to have a healer and a bath waiting when he got home. By the time he finally made it, he almost regretted it; he was so exhausted that he'd rather sleep in the sewer-filth that covered him, and wait until the morning to worry about whether or not the chunk missing from his side would get infected. He suffered through the healing, though, choking down a potion before climbing into a bath, too tired to care is he fell asleep and drowned.

By the time he was walking from the bath to his chambers in a dressing robe, the sun had been up for hours. He asked a servant, Orana, to retrieve Bran for him. When Varric passed through his private office to his bedroom he found a letter waiting for him, bearing the Davri stamp. He tried desperately to ignore it, wanting only to sleep, but couldn't stop himself from opening it. The words swam in front of eyes that refused to focus.

 

      
_V,_  


      
_You never responded to my inquiries. Don’t pretend you didn’t receive them, I know you did. I need you. Do me this favor. Please, just write and tell me that you will, for my peace of mind._  


      
_I got your letter, too. I can’t say I’m surprised by your request—it’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it? You didn’t elaborate much, and I suspect I will dislike your reasons, but of course I will. But you have to promise me you’ll do as I asked. If you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. I owe you that much._  


      
_Please, V. Go to Kirkwall’s Guild meeting and plead my case. Our case. You want this as much as I do._  


      
_Then I will do as you ask._  


      
_With love,  
~B_  


 

Of course. Nothing ever came without strings, where Bianca Davri was concerned.

He was scribbling a note when Seneschal Bran found Varric in his chambers. “I didn't think I'd be hearing from you before the Council meeting today,” Bran said, dryly. “You _will_ still be attending the Council meeting? There's slim chance of them approving building a library in Lowtown without your... Unique method of coercion.”

“I'll be there. Just give me a couple of hours of shut-eye. I need you to reschedule anything else on today's agenda, though. And I need you to take this to the Guard Captain,” he said, passing off the finished note, ink still drying. Bran nodded and made to leave, but Varric stopped him by saying, “And I need to know when the next Guild meeting is.”

Bran hesitated. “I... Don't understand. The Merchants' Guild meeting?”

“Yes, the Merchants' Guild. So if you could find one of the letters you tossed—”

“What for? So that you can purposely be seen somewhere else?”

“So I can be there.”

“You want to _attend _? You do mean the Dwarven Merchants' Guild, yes?”__

__“ _Yes_ , the one in which I inherited a seat from my dear older brother. What other Merchants' Guild is there?”_ _

__“It's just that you never—”_ _

__“Just find the information, Provisional.”_ _

__“It's this morning. Now.”_ _

__“What?”_ _

__“The soonest meeting. If you head there straight away, you might just make it in time. Otherwise, the next meeting is in a month's time.”_ _

__Varric sighed, and rubbed his temples. So much for sleep. “I see you've been reading my mail again.”_ _

__“Someone has to.”_ _

__“Just... Go fetch Orana, have her bring me some tea. The strongest she's got.”_ _

__Bran nodded and left._ _

__This was going to be a very long day._ _

__

____

~~~~~

By the time Varric made it to the meeting, the guildhall was already full. Nearly every seat around the long table was taken, though the actual meeting hadn’t started yet. Dwarves; male and female, kalnas and ascendants; were catching up, bickering, and accepting refreshments from servants.

If he weren’t so tired, he would have found it hilarious how all the chatter stopped as he strolled in. If he’d had some sleep, he never would have been able to keep a straight face as the silence was emphasize by his thudding footsteps as he casually made his way to his seat. He sat, hands clasped on the table, looking at a room of surprised—and somewhat contentious—bearded faces.

The things he did for love.


	13. Storytime

A few days later, Marigold was finishing up in the Viscount’s Gardens for the day; the sun was setting soon, and she needed to be off to her shift at the tavern. She rinsed the spades she’d been using with well water, and washed up herself as well. Weeds insisted that there was no point in washing the tools when they were made for getting dirty, but she insisted in turn that they should take proper care of them. It only took a few minutes, really.

She said goodbye to Weeds, but lingered by the fountain. She marveled at it as she brushed dirt off her apron, though she was growing accustomed to both by now. After a moment, she made her way to one of the many doorways into the Keep. It was different than the way she usually took, but she was pretty sure it led to the same hallway, which she would take to the servant’s entrance. She wasn’t very comfortable taking the grand arches of the main entrance; it made her feel out of place.

On her way to this side entrance she saw something unusual out of the corner of her eye: investigation revealed an area set up with targets and practice dummies, filled with arrows in all the wrong places. Some stuck out of the ground, or the wall behind the straw barriers. There were even some daggers scattered about. To the side were quivers of arrows in different lengths, and several different bows, though she didn’t know what any of the styles were called. She was no expert, but it was easy to tell that whoever was responsible for this needed a _lot_ more practice. 

As she made her way down the hall, she couldn’t help but glance around curiously. Truth be told, she didn’t even try not to peer in the rooms and halls she passed, trying to learn more about the place Varric lived. Though, it didn’t seem like he spent much time here, anyway.

Which is why she definitely wouldn’t admit to herself that she was hoping that, by taking the long way, she’d run into him. Not until she _did_ , anyway. She glanced at yet another room, and there he was.

It was an office or a study or something, lined with bookshelves, some holding books and others writing supplies. He was sitting at a desk utterly buried under papers and scrolls, and his glasses were back, though not his pipe. Sunlight was streaming in from large windows, and he looked more relaxed than she’d seen him for a while. He must have been thinking, staring off into space as she passed, because he saw her even before she halted her steps.

“Marigold,” he said, sounding surprised, but pleasantly so.

She really loved the way he smiled when he said her name.

“It’s good to see you,” she greeted from the doorway, because it was. She hadn’t seen him since the sewers.

He tucked away his glasses and stood, and it almost felt normal for him to stop what he was doing to greet her. She was relieved that he didn’t seem upset with the harsh words they’d left off on. She also noticed that he was limping as he went to her, just the tiniest bit.

“How are you holding up?” he asked as he glanced at her neck. She tilted her head, exposing her throat to him. He ran the pad of his thumb over the healing scratch, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world for him to do, and not like it sent shivers down her spine.

“Just fine. Are you alright? You were covered in a frightful amount of blood.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing to worry about. Very little of it was mine.”

She had seen the bandages that night and didn’t believe him, but she let it go. “I was just on my way out for the day. Will you be at the Hanged Man, later?”

He smiled. “I was just headed that way, myself. I’ll walk with you.”

That was probably a lie, too, but she’d happily ignore it if it meant walking with Varric. He took her through corridors, and she lost all sense of direction—this didn’t seem like the way she’d planned to go, but he knew his way around.

She had the silly urge to hold his hand as they walked. She was wondering what he’d do if she actually tried it when he startled her out of her thoughts. “So, how are my gardens coming along?”

“Oh, fine! Today was pretty exciting, actually. I planted some daisies a while go—because of your friend that you mentioned?—and they’re starting to bloom. I don’t think I’ve grown anything all the way from a seed before! I know what you said about color, so I made sure the seeds I bought weren’t for the white ones, but I’ve been worried until today that they’d be the wrong ones.”

He chuckled. “You can plant whichever flowers and colors you want, Marigold, I trust your judgement. I’m sure Daisy will love to see them when she gets back.” She could hear in his voice that he was not at all sure Daisy would be coming back. “Wouldn’t it be easier to buy the flowers already bloomed?”

“Well, easier sure, but they cost a lot more that way. And before you tell me that there’s plenty of money in the budget, I know that, but just think of all the different kinds of plants I’ll be able to grow if I act like a miser! Plus, maybe if there’s some left over, we can do some of those construction projects you were talking about, so we can make the gardens public?”

He laughed when she predicted exactly what he was going to say, and answered, “That sounds like a great idea, Marigold.”

They passed through a door, and he had to hold a chain aside for them to pass. They were in the official, public part of the Viscount’s Keep.

“Oh, do you need something from your office?”

“Not quite,” he said as he continued walking. “Did you know that the Merchants’ Guild has ties with the Coterie?”

Marigold stopped short, chilled. “You’re involved with them?”

“No, no!” he was quick to assure her. “Not like that. The Guild and the Coterie work against each other, but also have a sort of uneasy alliance. I don’t do half the shit the Guild asks me to, but there’s a reason they haven’t kicked me out yet—other than my family. I have sources and connections that they don’t. My ‘unofficial’ official role in the Guild is keeping the Coterie in check and off our backs. But, apparently, I haven’t been keeping as on top of them lately. If I had known about your brother before…” He shook his head.

“You could have prevented what happened,” she finished for him, meekly. She’d been too embarrassed to ask for help, and her brother and herself, and even Varric, had nearly gotten killed because of it. It was a lot to take in. “I can’t believe y-you work with them, you let them do what they do!”

He looked around, and gestured for her to keep walking. It was after business hours, but there were still people about, and voices carried easily.

“I don’t _let_ them, Marigold, any more than you or anyone else does. Don’t mistake being able to contact the Coterie as being able to control them. I make deals, make compromises, for the greater good. I hold sway, but no real power. To stop them would… Well, it would take a lot of bloodshed, like the other night. No one wants that. As it is, the last few days have been interesting; it’s been hard to convince the Coterie not to retaliate, after a blow like that. ‘It was an accident’ isn’t really convincing anyone. But if they went after the Merchants’ Guild…” He shook his head again. “A war between the two would be costly. Kirkwall’s economy collapsing would be the least of our problems. You understand, don’t you?”

It was him who stopped his steps this time, facing her. He was looking at her desperately, and she knew what he wanted her to say, but she was still staggered by his revelation. He struck bargains with the bad guys, the people who had hurt her and her brother.

Not yet ready to forgive or condemn, she neutrally replied, “I suppose I just didn’t realize. You really are involved with every little thing that goes on in this city, aren’t you?”

He looked as uncomfortable as she felt. “You knew that; you’ve heard my stories. I’ve never pretended to be anything other than what I am.”

“Of course. I guess I assumed all those stories were exaggerated.”

He chuckled anxiously. “Well, they are. But every good story has a grain of truth.” He gestured ahead of them, to the Guard Barracks instead of the exit to their right. “Anyway, I went to a Guild meeting and—”

“You went to a Guild meeting?” she asked, surprised. 

“Oh, for the love of—yes, I went to a meeting, and it seems I’ll never hear the end of it. The things I do for… Nevermind. The reason I brought it up was to let you know that the Coterie has forgotten all about your family. I promise, you won’t be hearing from them again. I thought you might like to prove to the Guard Captain that Brugen was falsely accused of whatever it was he was accused of, falsely.”

Her mouth fell open. “Really? Just like that?” He nodded. It seemed hard to believe, but she trusted him. Her hand went to her apron pocket, where she had the paper receipts in question. “How did you know I’d have the proof with me?”

“How did I know that you wouldn’t let the evidence that would set your brother free out of your sight? Call it a hunch.”

~~~

He introduced her to Guard Captain Aveline, then, and Marigold barely managed to not say something silly about the story with the marigolds. Aveline probably didn’t even remember that old story. Marigold sort of wished she’d brought one of the flowers with her, though, or found a way to mention that there were some growing in the Gardens.

Aveline didn’t seem surprised by the documents that cleared her brother’s name miraculously showing up. Which meant that Varric had told Aveline, of course, though there was no indication of it on the books. That told Marigold a great deal about the woman, and she liked her instantly.

Varric left Marigold in Aveline’s hands, telling her that he’d explain to Norah why she was delayed. He said he didn’t want to intrude on her reunion with her brother, though she wouldn’t have minded if he’d stayed. She was happy to see Brugen, of course, but really, he had only been locked up a couple of days, so it was nothing to get worked up about. Brugen had had time to cool down, so he didn’t yell, though he sulked. He always sulked, though.

She walked her brother home, though it was the middle of the day and he hardly needed an escort. She did want to make sure he went home, though, and not to Alin’s. Marigold had made sure Alin knew where Brugen was, so he’d understand the sudden disappearance. Her parents needed to see Brugen more, now.

Marigold found her thoughts getting pulled back to Varric, trying to reconcile what she’d learned with what she knew. By the time they made it all the way back to Lowtown, she realized that the only reason it had shocked her was because some small part of her still thought of ‘Varric’ and ‘the Viscount’ as two different people—the man she spent time with, and the man from the stories.

That was unfair, though. Hadn’t she just told him the last time they’d spoken that people were people? Like her, like Brugen, like all those men and women in the sewer tunnels; capable of good and bad and in between. She shouldn’t have made him feel bad. In the end, she trusted him to follow his heart.

He’d done a good thing for her. She wouldn’t even ask what he’d had to give them for the Coterie to give up her brother in addition to the cost of not retaliating against the Guild.

~~~~~

“No shit, there I was. Just me and Bianca here, and a dozen armed men. I could see the whites of Marigold’s eyes from across the alley as she silently begged me to save her. So I gave her a little nod, and she knew what I was about to do—or so I thought. I fired straight for her! And she shrieked, and I thought to myself, did she not understand my meaning? Have I made a terrible mistake? Am I about to commit the world’s worst rescue attempt? But right at the last second, as the arrow flew towards her, she twisted away! The arrow passed so close to her that the fletching gave her that little nick on her neck. Wham! The bolt hit the first guy so hard that it just kept going, right into the guy behind him, piercing both their hearts! And then—”

“ _Varric!_ ” Marigold gasped, using her very best admonishing, scandalized voice. “That’s not how it happened! You’re telling it all wrong!”

He looked up from his audience as their faces changed from enthralled to skeptical. “Uh, Marigold, you’re back. I didn’t hear you come in…”

She struggled not to laugh as he squirmed uncomfortably, thinking she was about to call him out on his exaggerations, but she could feel a smile pulling on the edges of her lips. “That arrow went through _three_ men. The one in the back was real small, though—an elf actually—so maybe you just didn’t see him behind the others. I think you got him in the eye!”

She watched, delighted, as a slow grin spread across his face. The crowd immediately accepted her words and looked to Varric with newfound respect for his prowess. It was much more believable having someone like her collaborate his story because, of course, everyone knew she was innocent and honest, and could only be telling the truth.

“I guess I never saw him. Thanks for setting me straight, Marigold.”

“Of course! Glad to help. You can always ask me, if you forget any more bits. You didn’t skip over the part where they had me bound and gagged, and threatened to throw me off the Wounded Coast, did you?”

“I was just getting to that part, actually,” he replied, and she could see the gears turning in his head as he was obligated to work it into the story, the audience looking between them anxiously.

“Well. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

She bit her lips together in an effort to shoot him a small smile, and he gave her the smallest, heart melting-est hint of a wink before turning back to the crowd.

~~~

Marigold spent the rest of the evening in a good mood, listening to Varric recount his tales. For once, there was no one else for him to pass the glory on to. He couldn’t claim it was Hawke, or the Inquisitor. He gave Marigold more credit that she was due, of course, but she wasn’t a fighter—he had to admit to being the hero of his own story, for once.

When it seemed everyone who wanted to hear the tale had heard it many times over, there was a break in the conversation, which she used to approach him nervously.

Everything coming out in a rush, she said, “You don’t have to, and I already warned her you would probably say no, but Mama is insisting that I invite you to a family dinner, as thank you for helping my brother and I, and I can’t go home until I ask.”

He smiled. “Well of course I’ll go. Wouldn’t want to disappoint Mama.”

“I think you should reconsider.”

“I don’t think you heard me; I said I’d go, Marigold.”

“I know. I heard you. I just think that you should reconsider it.”

“You don’t want me there?” 

“No, it’s—yes, I mean, it’s not that, it’s just… You know we live in Lowtown, and it’s a very small home, and there’s a bunch of us, and it’s dirty and it’s crowded and, even _before_ I would have known it wasn’t fit for a viscount, of course, but now that I’ve seen where you live?” She shook her head vehemently. “It’s a hovel, really. I couldn’t ask you to spend any amount of time there.”

“Well that’s alright. You’re not asking, your mama is.”

“I-I don’t think you understand. I’m not being modest, Varric. This morning I had to cut the mold off the cheese before breakfast!”

Scratching the scruff of his chin thoughtfully, he said, “I admit, my guest etiquette is a little rusty. I know you never show up for dinner without a bottle of wine—does moldy cheese pair best with red or white?” When she answered only with an incredulous stare, he laughed. “You’re not rescinding the offer, are you?”

“I’m… No, of course not,” she answered miserably. With a sigh, she said, “Mama thinks red wine is pretentious, but Papa thinks white is cheap, so bring a white but make sure it’s not a cheap one. But not too expensive, either, or he’ll think you’re trying to say you’re better than him. And make sure it’s not Orlesian, or my sister will drink too much and make a fool of herself. I’ll… I’ll tell mama you said ‘maybe’, okay? In case you come to your senses later.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Marigold.”

She groaned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was waiting a long time to wrote two of these scenes, it was very satisfying to finally get to that point!


	14. A Guest For Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing this dinner... I practically wrote it all in one sitting, and it ended up being two chapters long. 
> 
> Also, it took all my strength not to name this chapter 'Meet the Family,' from Anachromystic's now-removed fic.

“I just don’t understand why he would say ‘maybe’,” Mama complained for the dozenth time. “How am I supposed to know how much food to make? How do we know if we should wait for him, or just start without him?”

“He’s the viscount, Mama,” Marigold explained, with exasperation, for the dozen-and-oneth time. She eased herself into a chair by the only window, fanning herself and hoping the breeze would provide a small respite from the heat and humidity of the room. “He’s a busy man. He says he wants to be here, but who knows if he’ll get called away on business. I told him dinner starts just after sundown, so if the sun goes down and he’s not here, we eat without him. Simple as that.”

“It just seems rude to me, to leave folk wondering like that. He ought to just…” Marigold stopped listening to her mother’s continued grousing, looking around the rectangular room and trying to view it as a stranger would.

It was far too small for the large table and numerous mismatched chairs that occupied most of the space. The stove and other cooking implements were piled in the back of the room. Opposite of the ‘kitchen’ was the front door, the only escape. The other two walls had a single door each; one to her parent’s tiny bedroom, and one to the somewhat-less-small bedroom that she shared with her two siblings, niece, and nephew. Uneven shelves covered most of the walls, filled with clutter.

There were an embarrassing number of flower pots.

A resounding knock came from the door, triggering sudden, painful butterflies in her stomach. She should have been watching out the window! She jumped up immediately, whisking off her dirty apron and tossing it in the general direction of a cloak-hook as she straightened her skirts.

The bedroom door opened as the remainder of her curious family came into the main room. She ignored the gaze of her suddenly-quiet family as she checked that her kerchief was still covering her sweat-dampened hair, cursing the summer heat as she opened the door.

It was Varric, of course, who else would it be? But somehow she still felt surprised to see him standing there, completely casual, as if this was normal and not a disaster waiting to happen.

Except she did notice he’d shaved off his scruff; an unusual choice, for a dwarf, even if everyone present was a surfacer.

“Oh, you came,” she said dumbly. She couldn’t figure out is she was relieved or disappointed. “Come on in.” She stepped back, holding the door open for him, and he was met with a wall of dwarves.

She watched as Varric greeted her mama, the hostess, first. “You must be Marigold’s little sister,” he said, though she obviously wasn’t. Marigold held back an eyeroll.

Her mama laughed, though, enjoying the compliment nonetheless. “Viscount, you are too kind! I am Marigold’s mother, Rosie Kadret.”

“My mistake, Serah Kadret. This is for you, then, as a thank you for the invitation.” He held out the bottle of the somewhat-pricey non-Orlesian white wine to her, but when she reached for it Varric caught her hand and bent to brush a kiss over it. She tittered, hiding her blush behind her other hand. Marigold hid a snigger behind a hand of her own.

Varric straightened and relinquished the bottle to Mama, who said, “Please, Rosie is fine.”

He nodded, and turned to extend an open hand towards her father, who shook it with far more gusto than necessary. She knew that he was squeezing more than a bit too firm, determining Varric’s worth by how hard he gripped in return. Any hope she’d had of her papa holding back his overbearing nature for their esteemed guest flew out the open window. It was going to be a long evening.

“Thank you for opening your home to me, Serah Kadret.”

“Messere Tethras.” Her papa finally released Varric’s hand with a nod, apparently satisfied with the ritual.

“Please, everyone, call me Varric. I’m not one for titles.”

“Alright, Varric,” Papa replied. Marigold knew Varric wouldn’t have missed that Papa didn’t offer his own first name in return. “I admit, I didn’t think you’d deign to join us common folk here in Lowtown.”

“I’ve a great many friends in Lowtown, actually. Besides, I couldn’t turn down such a generous offer; Marigold goes on and on about how good her mother’s cooking is all the time, I couldn’t miss my chance to try it for myself.”

Marigold couldn’t recall mentioned her mama’s cooking even once, but his fib had the desired effect—Mama smiled again, blushing slightly, already completely enamored with Varric. Then with an ‘oh!’ she remembered the cooking, and excused herself in a hurry to stir the pot before it burned on the edges.

Marigold stepped forward, now that there was a space to stand, to finish the introductions. “Varric, this is my little sister, Aster. Aster, this is—well, you know who he is.”

Aster shifted the sleeping infant she was carrying to her left side so that she could extend her hand.

“Lovely to meet you,” Varric said as he kissed her hand as well. Marigold was starting to get jealous; he’d never kissed _her_ hand.

Aster didn’t get nearly so flustered as their mama, simply smiling as she said, “You too. I’ve heard a lot about you. Quite a bit, actually.”

Marigold tried to give Aster a dirty look without Varric noticing.

“Uh-oh. I hope at least some of it was good,” he said with a smile, and then bent his face down towards the baby. “And who’s this beauty?”

The fact that he knew the pudgy pink babe was a girl at all was evidence enough that he knew who she was, but Aster smiled proudly anyway. “This is Lily. Just six months old, she is.”  
Varric wriggled his fingers at Lily, making a silly face.

“This boy here, hiding behind my skirts, it Desch,” Aster continued, trying to flush out her son. “He’s going to be five here real soon, aren’t you?”

Desch stood completely frozen, as if Varric might not see him if he didn’t move.

“That’s a good, strong name.” Varric squatted down to eye level with the boy, talking to him in a low voice. Marigold couldn’t make out the words, but she saw Desch smile meekly in response, though he didn’t let go of his death grip on Aster.

Marigold was glad Varric didn’t ask after the father of her sister’s fatherless brats, or why they looked nothing alike. When Varric stood, Marigold gestured to her brother, sullenly trying not to be noticed in the corner.

“And you know Brugen, of course, though you didn’t get much of a chance to meet properly.”

While her sister was only younger than her by two years, her brother was by almost ten, and looked every bit of his youth as he shook Varric’s hand limply, mumbling something that may have been a greeting, thank you, or apology.

She heard Varric answer quietly, “We’ll talk about it later.”

Marigold jerked her head towards the table, telling Brugen, “Go set the table and make sure everyone has a drink. I’ll get Grandmama.”

She ducked into her parent’s closet-sized bedroom, closing the door all but a crack behind her so that Varric couldn’t see in.

By the time she got her grandmama to hobble into the main room, clutching her for support, most everyone was already seated. Gesturing, she said in a loud, slow voice, “Grandmama, this is Varric. He’s a friend.”

Varric stood to greet Grandmama, who only said, “Eh?”

“Varric. He’s a friend, he’s having dinner with us tonight.”

“I don’t know any Varric.”

“Well, you do now,” Varric replied, matching Marigold’s clear speaking voice. “I’m honored to meet you. Marigold talks about you all the time.”

“Eh? Oh, you’re a handsome one, aren’t ya? And a dwarf! Wanna stay fer dinner?”

“I’d love to, thank you.”

“Come sit, Grandmama. Dinner is almost ready.”

Her father was at the head of the table, of course. Varric, as the guest of honor, returned to his seat to his right. The space to Papa’s left was open for Mama, who was still stirring the spiced stew. The rest of that side of the table was taken up by a bench, where Aster sat with a babe strategically placed on either side.

Marigold eased Grandmama into her seat at the foot of the table, and squeezed into her spot between Varric and her brother. Nine people, more or less, sitting at a table designed for six in a house built for three.

Mama leaned over the table then, handing Papa a broad bowl filled with clean water. Papa fished out the towel (rag, really) swimming inside and proceeded to wash his hands. Marigold felt a surge of anxiety, realizing she hadn’t explained all her family’s little rituals to Varric yet, but when Papa slid the bowl over to him he barely missed a beat.

Varric rinsed his hands, mimicking her papa, as if this was a perfectly normal thing to do. Which it wasn’t. Every time they had new guests she was reminded how unusual it was, though it was nothing compared to the stares they’d gotten when they lived in Darktown. Fresh water was scarce there, but that didn’t stop Mama and Grandmama from insisting they keep it up, even without walls surrounding them to protect them from prying eyes.

When he was done, Varric gave her a quizzical look, lost on what to do next. She nodded her head toward her brother, who helpfully held out a hand as well; menfolk wash before the women and the children. Brugen quickly rinsed and passed the bowl to Mama, who helped Grandmama, her mother, clean up. Varric watched her mama struggling with her grandmama, who was fighting her, not understanding what was going on.

When Mama handed the bowl off to Marigold, he leaned. “Your grandmother’s not what I expected, the way you talk about her.”

She swallowed. It was true. Keeping her voice low as well, she explained, “I don’t like to talk about the way she is now. She was a really strong woman, before, and I don’t want everyone to just forget that. Practically raised me, she did, since my parents were working or out looking for work all the time. But Grandpapa didn’t survive our time in Darktown, and… I guess she didn’t survive losing him.”

He nodded, and she passed the increasingly dirty water dish to her younger sister. When Aster finished washing her son’s hands, she stood to put the bowl in the sink. Then Mama, still standing, clapped her hands and rubbed them together. “Alright, now, who’s hungry?”

She started dishing the fragrant mix into clay bowls, most of which were chipped, but they all matched, which Mama was very proud of. She filled them and passed them to Aster (who was closest to the stove), who passed them further along down the table. When a bowl was placed in front of Varric he made a move for his wooden spoon, but Marigold put a hand on his thigh to stop him.

He looked up, saw that everyone left their food untouched, and pulled his hand back. Before she had time to do the same, his hand was in his lap, briefly covered hers. She was suddenly very aware of her pulse as her heart pounded in her chest.

Papa spoke, but she barely heard him. When she felt Varric’s hand leave hers and he reached for his mug, though, she immediately went for her wine.

“A toast,” Papa started, as he did every night, “To our little family. To the roof over our head and the food on our plates and the mead in our bellies, and to everyone who is still with us today. And to Varric, who helped make it so. Hear, hear!”

“’Hear, hear!’” shouted nearly everyone at the table, Varric only a split second behind the rest. Everyone dug in at last—or almost everyone, anyway. The shouting startled the baby, so Aster left the room, bouncing Lily and trying to quiet her sudden shrieking. Grandmama was holding her spoon, but didn’t seem very interested in eating.

A platter of fruit and a board of bread were passed around; Marigold skipped on the fruit, knowing there wasn’t enough for everyone, but she never turned down fresh bread. Varric took some of everything, of course, not wanting to insult. He drank his mead without complaint at well, though she knew he preferred ale.

And he complimented her mama on her cooking. He was such a gentleman when he wanted to be. “I don’t think I’ve ever had spice quite like this before. It’s different than Tevinter fare.”

“Oh, it’s all anyone eats in Lowtown anymore,” Mama answered.

Her papa interrupted to mumble (loudly), “Doesn’t spend so much time in Lowtown lately, after all….” but Mama ignored him.

“It started coming in right when the docks reopened. It was priced for folks like us, so those up on the hill haven’t paid it no mind, begging your pardon.”

It was so abundant and cheap that the wealthy wanted no part of it, she meant.

The conversation went pleasant enough, for a time. Then the questioning started.

Her father treated every newcomer as an interrogation victim, especially the men (as women couldn’t be expected to understand politics, according to him). “Odd, that you happened to be with Marigold both times she was attacked.” “Shouldn’t you increase guard patrols?” “You’re part of the Merchants’ Guild, aren’t you? Why haven’t they done more to improve things?” “I heard some new construction projects are planned for Hightown; do you really think that’s the best place to be concentrating your efforts?”

Varric, for all that he claimed to hate politics, had a ready answer for every question her papa threw at him—and a clever story to go with it. He explained that he was looking after Marigold, and told anecdotes about all the times he’d found his Dalish friend in the wrong place at the right time, or vice versa. She noticed he carefully prodded her family’s feeling towards elves and adjusted the story accordingly. She’d heard him do it a million times, ‘tailoring the tale to his audience’ as he put it, careful with the tricky subjects like race, religion, and government. She must have heard eight different versions of this story by now, and still couldn’t say which was truer.

Taxes, of course, were a good enough reason for not increasing guard patrols. Guard Captain Aveline, apparently, ran things at a much higher cost than the previous captain, but the results were worth it, and he could explain why.

He glossed over how convoluted and contrary the Guild was, saying instead that it was often more productive to work alongside them than actually with them—their politics could slow down efforts, like that one time…

He explained that sometimes you have to give the nobles what they want, but did so while making it sound like her papa already knew that, not like he was talking down to him. “You know how it is. You’ve got to let them have their way sometimes if you want to keep your butt on the throne. I’ve made a lot of unpopular decisions as viscount, but if I toss them a bone sometimes, I get to keep my seat. I like to think I get more good done, in the long run.”

Papa nodded along. “They won’t scratch your back until you scratch theirs. I’ve certainly seen enough of that. And I admit, you’ve had more interest in helping those of us living in the shadow of the hill than any viscount before you.” Her papa had always supported the viscount back when he was just a faceless leader, she shouldn’t be surprised that he was being so nic— “Not bad for a Kalnas, anyway.”

Marigold cringed, and the other conversations at the table went quiet as everyone listened in, knowing how Papa was when he got going on Kalnas versus Ascendants, and wondering how their guest would react.

Varric just laughed it off. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I like to think I’m pretty reasonable, for a noble. A man can’t help the family he’s born into—it’s just as true for nobility as peasants, though results vary.”

Mama cut in, trying to change the subject. “Do you have a large family, Varric?”

“As much family as a rat has fleas. No family in Kirkwall, though. The Tethras have spread to the wind.”

“Since being exiled from Orzammar, you mean,” Papa said cuttingly.

“That’s right.”

“So do you stick to old Orzammar traditions, then? Live by their rules, hoping to earn your way back someday?”

“Look, I’ve been all over Thedas and back, but I’ve never gone to Orzammar, nor do I want to. I can’t speak for every Tethras, but I was born right here in Kirkwall, and I’m perfectly happy being up in the sun.”

“But you live well because you descended from some Paragon or another. Half the Guild is Kalnas. Don’t you—”

“I can’t claim I haven’t benefited from the Paragons in my family,” Varric started, and Marigold heard the defensive tone he was trying to hide, and caught the subtle correction in the number of paragons in his line. “Just like I can’t claim I haven’t been hindered by being in exile, but I got where I am by my own merit. Maybe I couldn’t have gotten this far without my lineage, but that doesn’t mean everything was handed to me, either. The world would be better off if people judged people on their actions.”

“ _Hear, hear!_ ” Papa shouted, startling Varric and causing Marigold and several others to jump. The party cheered in return, raising their glasses of wine, juice, and mead to Papa’s sudden jovial tone. “I’ve been saying for years, haven’t I, that that viscount up on the hill had a good head on his shoulders. ‘Just what the people need’, that’s what I’ve been telling everyone. And now I know I was right! To Varric Tethras, on his own merit!”

Another cheer went up, and Marigold finished her wine with a large gulp, reaching for the bottle to pour herself another glass. The night was still young, and she didn’t think she’d survive on a single glass alone.

Varric shifted in his seat a little, seeming uncomfortable with all the praise. Or maybe it was just the jarring shift in mood from Papa. “You give me too much credit, Serah Kadret. I just do the best I can, same as anyone.”

“You can call me Rhagan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My spouse finds it fascinating that warmer climates (like I picture Kirkwall to be) always ended up developing spicy cuisine, which helps fight the bugs and bacteria that can contaminate food. So, this new spice is vaguely curry-based. 
> 
> Also I wasn't going to say anything, because subtext, but now I am: Marigold doesn't actually have anything against single mothers or fatherless children, and she loves her family to pieces, but she does harbor some resentment towards her sister's decisions because of Reasons that are unlikely to pop up in the body of this fic.


	15. Just Desserts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for dessert!

The rest of the dinner went easily enough. Aster and Brugen couldn’t seem to stop bickering, though; something about who was to watch over the children that week. Mama tried continually to steer the conversation, but was largely unsuccessful because of Papa. Grandmama eventually started eating, though she made a face the entire time.

The only other time her papa mentioned lineage was to bring up modern Paragons. “I imagine you’ve met that Smith woman they’re talking about turning into a Paragon. She’s from right here, in Kirkwall. She’s also in the Guild, right? What’s her name again?”

Though Marigold had been facing away, tearing off pieces of bread for Grandmama, she felt Varric tense beside her. A sore subject, then? 

“Davri. Her and her husband, Vasca—also of the Smiths—are both in the Guild. I’m afraid he and I don’t see eye to eye, so to speak. We avoid being in the same place at the same time.” Varric answered slowly, his voice overly formal, for him. Papa didn’t relinquish the subject, though.

“A pity. But you’re familiar with her work, then? Do you think she will become the first surface Paragon?”

“Bianca is the most brilliant smith you’ll ever meet, but… No. The Assembly would never raise a surfacer to Paragon. She says so herself. Descendant from Smiths, strong connections to the Miners; here on the surface she’s still casteless, just like the rest of us. They won’t ever look past that, no matter how much power she and Vasca accumulate.”

He said ‘Vasca’ as though it were a curse.

“I thought the very same thing myself. Promoting a casteless would disrupt the whole blighted caste system, and they aren’t about to give up their control—” Marigold’s derisive snort accidentally interrupted him, leaving her abashed. Irritated, Papa asked, “Did you have something to add, Marigold?”

“It’s just that…” She caught the look he was giving her. “No, Papa. Sorry.”

“No, I’d like to hear what you think,” Varric said, looking at her curiously.

She felt a bit on the spot, her Papa still looking displeased at the interruption. “Oh, well it’s just that I disagree, is all? Orzammar is losing its hold on us, isn’t it? It used to be dwarves only interacted with the surface out of necessity, hating every minute of it and fearing they’d fall into the sky. But now people are happy up here, and some even come up willingly. I’d sure rather be a surfacer than living in Dusttown, from what I hear, if I’m to be casteless either way. Their own system is driving people away.”

“That doesn’t mean they’ll be handing out Paragon titles like candy, Mare,” Papa said dismissively. 

“No, but there’s a whole lot of room for innovation on the surface. That’s where the Guild came about, starting the first banks and such. Most of Davri’s inventions have been farming equipment, haven’t they? Things she’d never have thought of down there, because there was no need. And there are going to be more like her. Are they just going to deny them all?”

“So what do you think is going to happen?” Varric asked, his voice uncomfortably sincere. She normally was too embarrassed to share her own theories, worried about being proven wrong.

“The truth is, they’ll lose more control if they _don’t_ start allowing surface Paragons. Orzammar still out numbers us, by a lot, I know, but for how long? Fertility, um, well the rates keep dropping for them, with their proximity to the taint. Up here, well…” She gestured to Aster, who scowled. “Every generation here reveres Paragons less than the ones before, too. Soon we won’t care at all, and then where will they be? They’ll lose their control; Orzammar dwarves will be as separated as the Dalish are from the other elves, clinging to their ways.” 

“Interesting,” he replied thoughtfully, and when he didn’t add anything else she just kept talking out of nervousness. 

“Don’t you think after a while the Guild or some new organization is bound to come along and start anointing Paragons, or a pantheon or something? To fill the void? Establish a whole new set of ridiculous rules for us to live by?”

“You know, I never really thought about it before. I’d better make sure the Guild doesn’t get a hold of this idea, or it’s liable to start a clan war.”

“Oh no, you don’t think—!” She cut herself off when she saw his grin, and smiled close-lipped back at him after elbowing his arm for teasing her.

~~~

Before she knew it, Marigold was helping clear the dishes, wishing dinner wasn’t over. Mama had prepared a dessert, so she was dishing it while Aster put Desch to bed and Brugen went to fetch more water from the well. When Varric volunteered to help Brugen, Mama started to protest until Marigold caught her eyes and shook her head. Varric wanted an excuse to talk to Brugen.

Unfortunately, Mama took it as an excuse to talk to Marigold. She started somewhat subtly, asking questions about Varric and mentioning how well he seemed to get along with the family. Marigold grew more and more agitated. Marigold’s infatuation was bad enough as it was, she didn’t need Mama goading her on.

“So... You've been spending a lot of time with him, lately...” her mama began again, tone of voice not subtle at all.

Irritated, Marigold scrubbed at the pot unnecessarily hard. “I spend a lot of time at _work_ , Mama. He's a regular at the Hanged Man, and he hired me to tend his garden. I spend just as much time with De La Haine’s son, who also drinks and pays me to clean the estate for him sometimes.”

“I know, I know. Any yet here Varric is, meeting your family, talking to your brother—”

Marigold dropped the pot she was cleaning into the sink with a clang. “He's talking to Brugen because he nearly got himself killed! And me along with him!”

Mama turned to face her, hands on her hips. “No need to be so dramatic, Marigold. I was merely suggesting that he needs a good woman to take care of him. Still single, at his age...”

“He has an army of servants taking care of him, Mama. Because he’s the _viscount_ , remember? Plenty of them are womenfolk.” Mama opened her mouth to say something else, but Marigold kept talking over her. “Oh, enough! He can take care of himself, he doesn't need you to help none. He's the first dwarf to ever run a city state, he's a hero a hundred times over, his work is known all over Thedas... Besides, why would he have any special interest in me? There isn't anything special _about_ me. He has connections in every court, he spends his time with the Champion, and the Herald, and mages, and Templars, and pirates… and, and... And he doesn't need some uproot Darktown dwarf who has to work three jobs just to keep the roof of a one-window shack over her family's head. Please just drop it, alright?”

She barely got the last of her rant out before her throat closed up. Marigold didn't realize how desperately she needed someone to tell her that her fears were groundless, that there was a chance… Until her Mama said, instead, “I supposed you're right, dear.”

Crushed, Marigold turned back to the sink before she got any more worked up. She briefly caught Grandmama's cloudy eyes, but luckily she made no demands for Marigold to smile—Marigold didn't think she could manage one. Her own mother couldn't find a flaw in her argument, couldn’t tell her it could work... 

It didn't matter.

The door opened, and in waltzed her brother, carrying a now-filled water bucket. “Power, fortune, and fame—if I had that kind of life I would take home a different girl every night!”

The crushing weight on Marigold's chest was suddenly accompanied by immense dread—the open window! She'd been too loud. Brugen had heard her, right? And entering right behind Brugen was...

She started scrubbing the already-clean pot with unnecessary vigor, unwilling to look at Varric. He hadn’t heard, surely, certainly fate couldn’t be so cruel as that. The last thing she needed was him to think she fancied him because of his fame and fortune.

Because, if anything, it was his kindness, his wit, his generosity...

She tried very hard to force lightness into her voice and make a joke of the situation. “Oh please, you've been with the same boy for ages now, Brugen. You'll probably be married by this time next year.”

“HA!” The sharp cackle came from Grandmama. At least someone thought she was funny.

“What? Alin? Alin and I aren't... We're just friends, I'm not...”

Marigold turned around at last, looking at her brother in confusion. Grandmama, Mama, Papa, Varric; all eyes were on Brugen as he stuttered, voice high and clearly uncomfortable, especially with a stranger in the house. 

“Oh, Brugen,” Marigold let out a breath, speaking to her brother with a tender voice for the first time since she found out about his dealings with the Coterie. “I didn't know it was a secret, hon. Did you think we didn't all know?”

“Yeah, we talk about it all the time. HA!”

Brugen looked at his grandmama, mortified.

“Why do you think I'm always asking him to come over more, baby?” asked Mama gently.

Brugen's gaze shifted anxiously across the mostly supportive faces of his family, lingering on his father, whose face was carefully neutral as he grab for his dessert. Brugen's face turned red as he also noticed the stranger looking on curiously, and he bent to pick at his own bread pudding without another word.

For just a small moment things were awkward, until Varric chimed in, “You know, that reminds me of a story...”

The story was wonderful. 

Marigold couldn't recall a word of it.

She lost herself in the timber of Varric's voice and the cadence of his words, enjoying the way her family's tension melted away and the way both her papa and brother laughed at the punchline.

The evening that once seemed like it would last forever was suddenly over too quickly. She felt a loss as soon as her sister rose and started collecting the dishes again.

~~~

Marigold walked Varric out soon after dessert. Too soon. Outside the moon was high, and the air was blessedly fresh (at least compared to inside). They walked silently at a snail's pace, side-by-side, until they were several yards away from her front door. She came to a stop and he followed suit. Should she say something, about what she’d said before? Would he?

A moment ticked by, and then she said, “That was just awful, wasn't it? My papa, and that whole thing with my brother was... I tried to warn you.”

“Actually, it was kind of... Perfect.”

“Perfect?” she squeaked. “Were you at a different dinner than I was? I was referring to the one with the squabbling and crying babies and a million questions.”

“That's the one.”

She blinked at him, shaking her head. “The fruit. The fruit must have gone bad and fermented, and now you're not thinking clearly. I'm sure of it. How much did you eat?”

He chuckled, a warm honest chuckle. “It's obvious your family loves each other, Marigold. Underneath all that teasing and arguing, they really just care about what they think is best for each other. It wasn't like that, when I was growing up. Any fighting my family did was real—full of anger, and bitterness.

“Dad died when I was young, I don’t even remember him. Mom... She was ill, by her own hand. Smoking, drinking. She messed herself up pretty bad, and we had to take care of her. And my older brother, Bartrand... He and I never got along. I thought it was just because I was the younger brother, that deep down… Well, he proved me wrong about that.”

Marigold had a feeling that there was more to that story, but she didn't ask; she didn't want to ruin his mood. “I'm sorry, Varric. That must have been very hard, on all of you.” When he didn't reply, she added, “Was it just the four—three of you? Didn't you say you have a big family?”

He nodded. “I do, but we're not close. I've never even met most of them. And, to be completely honest, I'm not exactly sure how big clan House Tethras really is; I've given the Merchants' Guild so many false names to keep them off my back that I'm starting to forget who is real and who is made up.”

She laughed. “You act like you want to avoid accountability a lot, for someone who takes so many responsibilities onto himself. Businesses under false names, giving Hawke credit for things I can tell were actually your doing...”

“Hey, that's just self-preservation. It's called 'plausible deniability', and it's a life saver.”

‘So are you’, she wanted to say, but didn't. She ought to stop behaving so lovesick before someone besides her mama noticed. It would pass. She would get over this. “Well, anyway, thank you for coming tonight—”

“Even though you practically begged me not to?” he interjected with a grin.

“ _Yes_ , even though I practically begged you not to, and you completely ignored me. At least we got you out of there before Mama invited you over some other time. You'll never have to talk to any of those crazy people again.”

“Oh? It's going to be pretty awkward playing Wicked Grace with your father next week without speaking to him.”

Her eyes went wide as she inhaled sharply, and Varric chuckled. “He invited you to—you _won't_ , tell me you won't.”

“I invited _him_. My group's been dwindling; we could use another player.” 

Her hands flew up to cover her mouth in horror, and he laughed again, but he didn't understand. Papa would be trying to tell him how to run the city, telling all his friends he could get them out of trouble now that he had connections. 

Varric stepped toward her and grabbed her wrists to pull her hands from her face, and then, suddenly, somehow, their fingers were entwined, and used his grip to pull in a little closer to her, and...

He _kissed_ her.

He kissed _her_ , of all people. It was warm and slow and somewhere between gentle and firm, and she kissed him back, of _course_ she kissed him back.

Just a goodnight kiss, it was over too quick. As he stepped backwards and slowly unlaced their hands she wanted to say something, but she was still completely dazed, mind completely blank except for the lingering feeling of the warmth of him standing so close, the feel of his lips, the calluses on his hands.

With an emotion she couldn't identify, Varric smiled as he backed away. “Goodnight, Sweetheart.”

He had already turned around and started walking home by the time she found her voice.

“Goodnight...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote the whole damn fic just so I could write this scene, tbh!


	16. Perfect Timing

Varric walked to the Hanged Man with heavy steps, a weight bearing down on his heart. He'd been an ass last night, carried away with how easy it was to feel like a part of that life. Of Marigold's life. He'd stolen a kiss that wasn't his to take. Undoubtedly a heart as well, guessing by the way she'd looked at him.

'Sweetheart' he'd called her; the nickname that had always been on the tip of his tongue, and this time he was unable to swallow it before he said it. And she did have a very tender heart, didn't she?

He'd realized his mistake almost immediately, her hands still in his, and he should have taken it back right then. But he was a coward. He'd left, unable to find the words. And now it would be so much harder to say them, after she'd spent the night thinking... Whatever it was she thought of it.

Whatever she thought about _him_ , it was about to change. He wished he could go to her, heart on his sleeve, and tell her that he...

That he, well...

Well, shit. It didn't matter how he felt. He was spoken for, a one crossbow man, and he'd have to tell her as much. He hoped she wouldn't cry. He hoped _he_ wouldn't cry. He'd have to make sure Corff and Norah watched after her and her family. He certainly couldn't keep coming around here, after this.

Would she agree to keep her gardening position? It wasn't fair for her to lose it on account of him being a jerk. He would promise to avoid the gardens, like he used to. He wondered if he'd be able to keep a promise like that, knowing she was so close...

He blinked away the stinging in his eyes as he entered the tavern. Those eyes found her immediately, automatically, as they always did. He allowed himself a moment, enjoying watching her joyfully tease her patrons. Her whole face lit up as she laughed, lightheartedly shoving Ronauld's shoulder.

_She had the kind of beauty that you didn’t notice at first, and couldn't look away from once you did. The kind of smile that seeps into a man’s heart. Accustomed to the corruption and squalor of Lowtown, but her spirit seemingly unaffected by it. A caring heart, often mistaken for weakness. She might appear simple to some, but her understanding of how people work revealed a deep level of empathy and understanding that was often missed._

How well did she understand him? He feared he didn’t want to know the answer to that question.  
She saw him, then, and her grin briefly grew even broader somehow. Her bright green eyes danced as she dropped into that special close-lipped smile that was just for him, and he watched in a daze as a blush stole into her cheeks and she walked over to him.

“Hey there, stranger,” she greeted him, shy and happy, wringing her hands in her apron.

He burnt the image into his mind, to remember her by.

He couldn't say goodbye in front of all these people, but he couldn't put it off any longer, not with the way she was looking at him. “Hey, Marigold. Is there... Somewhere private we could talk?”

Her eyes went big in surprise. “A place to—oh!” She tittered nervously. “Of course, um, follow me I suppose.”

She led him upstairs and into her cleaning closet, of all places. Though, he wasn't sure where else he'd expected. He shut the door behind them, trying to secure it so that it wouldn't crack open like it always did. Then he took a deep breath to steel himself, and started to turn towards her. He wasn't even completely facing her before she hooked two fingers into the ring of gold on his necklace and pulled him down to her, kissing him hard.

Idiot that he was, every thought flew right out of his head as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, without hesitation. He forgot to feel guilty as her fingers curled in his chest hair, forgot to feel ashamed as her mouth yielded to his tongue. He used his lips to smother her small, eager noises, instead of making the excuses he'd come here to make.

As her soft curves melted into him, the only thing he felt was happy. Light. A sense of bliss settled over him that he hadn't felt in years. Decades, even.

When the kiss ended, and Marigold was looking up at him with half-lidded eyes and flushed cheeks, the knowledge of what an idiot he was crashed into him again. A different kind of guilt washed over him.

He was the biggest ass in Thedas.

He wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life surrounded by orange flowers, telling her stories just to watch her smile. How could he have possibly come here to push her away? 

This is where he belonged.

He would make it up to her. She'd never know what he'd almost done, but he would repent for it anyway.

He cleared his throat. “I, uh, can't seem to remember what I came here to say.”

Surprise crossed her face again. “Oh! You actually meant—I’m sorry. I thought it was just, you know, code for...”

“Don't be sorry, Sweetheart. I like the way you think.” He laughed as she hid her blush behind her hands, playfully nudging him with her elbow. He kissed her nose for the sheer joy of it. Then he sighed. “Listen, I've got to go run some errands, but I've arranged to meet a very important friend here later, and we'll need some privacy. That's, uh, why I asked for somewhere, before.”

Truth, sandwiched by lies. What he needed was time to think. It was time to make some new promises.

“Okay, no problem. I'll get the suite ready for you, then. And while your friend is here I promise to be very professional and not even mention that you pulled me into a closet to ravish me just hours before.”

“Funny, I don't remember it happening that way. Not that I'm complaining.”

“Well, that's how I'm going to tell it. It makes a better story, you see,” she explained, pulling him in for another kiss.

~~~~~

Varric looked up as the door to the suite swung open and his guest entered, looking around. Dalish, though you couldn’t tell her from a city elf by looking at her now. Her black hair had gotten longer since the last time he’d seen her, and she wore a short shoulder cloak over her left arm—or, what was left of it. He knew she looked deceptively frail, but it was a damned convincing impression. He could see the unnatural flash of green from eyes that used to be blue when she spotted him from across the room.

When she was within earshot he gave her a little mock bow from his seat, and greeted her, “Your Inquisitorialness.”

She immediately jerked her head and looked around, making sure no one else was in the room to hear his hushed tone—though, of course, he had been careful about that before he’s said it. Satisfied, she allowed herself a wry grin and sat close to him so she could speak softly. “Wow, that one’s a relic. I didn’t think I’d ever hear that name again.”

“Just thought you could use a reminded of how far you’ve come, Keria,” he explained. Then he added, “You look half blighted.”

“Odd… I feel _completely_ blighted. I was just on my way to meet the other darkspawn down in the Deep Roads.”

He chuckled, but it was more than a little forced. “I hope you’re taking better care of Daisy than yourself.”

Keria’s hand leapt forward, her gaze intense as she latched onto his arm. “How do you know about that?” she hissed quietly.

“Woah, calm down! It’s no big deal.”

“It _is_ a big deal! If your spies can figure it out then his must already know…”

“Easy, Trouble, easy. My spies have never managed to find you—it’s impressive, honestly.”

“Did Merrill tell you, then? She was instructed not to—”

“She didn’t need to. One day she was here in the city, helping with the rebuilding, and the next she was saying goodbye but wouldn’t tell me where she was going. And there are only so many eluvian experts around these days…”

Keria visibly relaxed, releasing the vice on his arm. “Sorry, Varric.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s a dangerous game you’re playing. Did you find the place alright?”

“Oh, sure…” she said sarcastically, gesturing offhanded with her residual limb. “I just asked for directions for the ‘best tavern in Kirkwall,’ like you said. And then, when that lead me to a nice little place near the Guildhall, I asked for the second best. And then the third, until I finally wised up and asked where someone would go to sell his honor and duty, and lo, here I am.”

“You were obviously asking the wrong people, then. You can’t trust the opinions of anyone from Hightown.”

“ _You’re_ from Hightown, my viscount. And so am I, or at least that’s where the estate you gave me is.”

He was spared having to answer by Marigold’s arrival. Marigold appeared disinterested as she said, “Welcome to the Hanged Man. Can I get you anything?”

“Nothing for me, thank you,” Keria answered.

“She’ll have a Marass-Lok,” Varric corrected. “I lent some to Corff to keep in the back. And a refill for me, thanks.” Marigold smiled politely, nodded silently, and left. It made Varric a bit uncomfortable, how convincingly she acted respectfully indifferent. “So, how’s the… You-know-what going?”

“Desperate quest to kill my lover before he destroys all of Thedas? Fantastic.” Keria shrugged, and dropped the sarcasm. “It’s hard to say, honestly. With the Inquisition, the goals were… Clearer. I could tell when we were making progress. Now, everything is muddled. I can’t tell if we’re actually getting anywhere or just _doing_ things. Sometimes I think we’ve got him, but he’ll slip away like it was his plan all along, and I start to think he’s so many steps ahead of us that we’ll never catch up.

“But then I remember all the times his precious plans have completely fallen apart because he’s forever underestimating people, and I think if we just keep at it we’re bound to catch him with his pants down. Uh, figuratively. Honestly, I worry it’s going to come down to which side is luckier, in the end… ”

“You know I’ll help, any way I can. Just say the word.”

She nodded. “I know. I’ve just got to play my cards close to my chest, right now.”

He nodded back, and then paused before asking, “You do mean _former_ lover, right, Trouble?”

“Why do you ask?” she asked, perfectly innocent.

“Keria…”

“Oh come off it, Varric. You’re not one to be doling out relationship advice. Whatever it was we had was brief and uncertain, and it was over long ago, and I’m doing my best to pretend it doesn’t still affect me, because I know it shouldn’t, but everyone can tell that it does. Sound familiar?” She let out a long sigh and picked at the grain of the table with a fingernail, clearly desperate for a subject change.

“Fair enough. I just worry about you.” He watched Marigold approach with a small glass in one hand and a pitcher in the other, and tentatively tried for a new subject. “I hear you and Curly—”

“Speaking of _not-quite-former_ lovers,” Keria interrupted pointedly, clearly disapproving of his topic choice. Varric stiffened and his eyes went wide as he cleared his throat, but Keria was looking down and he wasn’t fast enough to stop her from saying, “Bianca sent me an interesting letter the other day. The real Bianca, I mean. I assume you received the same letter?”

Marigold made a choking noise and froze. Ale overflowed onto the table as she looked at him, eyes huge, frozen in place. “Not quite…?” she stammered.

She fumbled, putting down the pitcher before she spun. Varric shot to his feet as she sped through the door as quick as her feet could carry her, but he hesitated. His mind faltered, trying to backtrack, trying to figure out the words he needed.

“Oh, I’ve stepped in something, haven’t I?” Keria asked, anxious.

“No, it’s… Yes, I mean, but you came all this—”

“ _Go_! Go after her!” the elf shouted, clearly understanding the desperation on his face, shooing him with her solitary hand. He didn’t need to be told again, his feet finally moving to trot after Marigold.

He leapt down the stairs, only to be confronted by Norah, hands on her hips and trying to take up as much space as possible. He tried to move around her, but she stopped him. “She’s gone home for the night.”

“Now isn’t the time, Norah.”

“You just leave her alone, Varric. I told you, I knew this would happen, I warned you to leave her alone, She’s been through enough.”

“I know she has, I just want to—I need to—” He made a frustrated noise and shoved past Norah. He didn’t have time for this.

Out on the street, though, there was no sign of her. He hurried his way to her place, hoping to catch her, but he never caught sight of her. Outside her door, he hesitated.

Maybe he was being selfish. Maybe he should let her go.

No. He was done thinking like that. He knocked on the door.

Varric could hear the sound of children as Aster opened the door. “Varric! Did you forget something last night?”

“Sort of. Forgot to tell Marigold something. Is she here?”

“No, she’s should be at the Hanged Man. Did you check there?”

“Ah. I must have gotten her schedule mixed up. I’ll check there next,” he answered, falsely casual. He could see Grandmama staring at him oddly, an uncomfortably clarity in her cloudy eyes.

Concerned, Aster asked, “Is everything okay? Is she in trouble?”

“No no, nothing like that. I’m sure I’ll be able to catch her at work. But, uh, in case I don’t, will you tell her…” Tell her what? That he could explain everything? Could he? He certainly couldn’t leave a message like that.

“I’ll tell her you stopped by,” Aster offered.

“And that you’re sorry. HA!” Grandmama barked.

Varric thanked them both without further explanation, and left. Nowhere else to look, he returned to Keria. Only when he saw her watching over his crossbow did he realized he’d left Bianca behind.

He made plans to play Wicked Grace with Keria later that night, after she found her estate, or tried the harbor keys or something.

Varric checked the gardens when he got home—a long shot—but Marigold wasn’t there either.

She was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative chapter title: Had You Going for a Minute
> 
> (Sorry Ves)


	17. Running High

Marigold didn’t cry, but she ran. She didn’t like to admit it, but there was no point in denying it. She ran, and she hid.

The shock of finding out Bianca was a flesh and blood woman, that they were still lovers after all this time? Or _‘not-quite-former lovers’_ , as the not-Inquisitor had put it.

She could still feel Varric’s kiss from that morning.

She’d stumbled downstairs to Norah, babbling incoherently but unable to think fast enough to do anything else. Marigold doubted Norah understood half of what she said, but she understood ‘Varric,’ and the look on her face, and told her to go. Leave work, go home, calm down.

So she left. After a few paces out the door, she started to run. Not the most reasonable way to deal with the situation, certainly, but it felt right at the time.

She couldn’t go home, where he’d certainly find her, so she wound up on the docks, watching the fishermen work. She wished she and Mikah were still speaking… She could really use a friend to talk to.

How had she never realized that she no longer had anyone she called ‘friend’? She had family, and customers, but no one she felt comfortable going to at a time like this. 

So, alone, she wandered. Her feet took her along the Docks, then meandering about the Gallows. She felt her face and arms growing pink from spending so much time in the sun, so she went indoors. Somewhere quiet. To the Chantry. (Giving the Viscount’s Keep a wide berth as she entered Hightown, of course.)

She was not a pious woman, but she did hold some faith. And didn’t she belong there, praying on her knees? She’d only just found out she was the ‘other woman,’ after all.

Well, sort of. They hadn’t really… Done much, had they? 

He hadn’t even said how he felt. Neither had she, but it she knew it was obvious.

What if he’d just been using her as some casual tussle? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time she’d let herself misread a man’s intentions that way. At least it’d only been a couple kisses this time. She should count herself lucky. She could have ended up with child, like her sister.

The second time a priest stopped and asked her if she wished for guidance for her prayers, or to talk, she left. She did not want to talk.

Which is why she probably shouldn’t have gone home. She schooled her face as carefully as she could as she entered the house, hoping to give nothing away to the family finishing dinner inside.

“There you are—Varric stopped by to see you, Aster says,” Mama greeted.

Marigold burst into tears. 

She’d been doing so well, too.

~~~~~

She woke up miserable the next day, face still swollen from crying. What a useless thing to do. What had she lost, really?

She’d talked to her mother the night before, of course. She couldn’t very well pretend nothing was wrong. She didn’t tell Mama everything, though—she didn’t really need to mention the kissing. Mama knew that Marigold cared for Varric, so finding out he was still in a relationship with this ‘Bianca’ woman was enough to justify the tears. Almost, anyway. 

It was Papa who recalled the name. “That was it! Bianca Davri, the would-be Paragon we discussed over dinner.”

Of course. Why wouldn’t she be a Paragon; who wouldn’t love a woman of such talent? Not just gifted, she was _legendary_. She was probably beautiful, too. 

Obviously their relationship was a bit complicated, though, if he was going around kissing serving girls who weren’t good at much of anything. Well, that was none of her business, was it?

She hoped he wasn’t hurting though.

She wasn’t ready to face him, wasn’t ready to face the embarrassment, wasn’t ready to explain to Norah. So, she sent her sister to the Hanged Man with a message, and instead she took over her mother’s cleaning jobs for the day to keep busy.

The worked helped to keep her mind off things, for a time, but it was too familiar, too second nature to distract her for long. Then, when the spoiled Hightown woman whose floors she was washing snuck off to be with her lover while her wife was away, Marigold got angry. 

She scrubbed at the tiles furiously, tears stinging her eyes. Rich people using people, it never changed. Here she was, feeling sorry for him, feeling sorry for herself. She never did stand up for herself, did she? She spent her whole life just trying to avoid becoming a victim, she certainly never thought to fight back.

Well, maybe it was time that changed. When she finished here she was going to march right up to the Keep and give the viscount a piece of her mind!

~~~

She never made it to the Viscount’s Keep.

By the time she’d finished at the De La Haine estate, muscles aching, the anger had passed and she felt defeated. There was a reason that she never fought back, after all. Is she didn’t like how a noble was treating her, what could she do? Complain, and then get replaced in a heartbeat by someone more biddable.

Is that was Varric would do with her, now?

~~~~~

She was like this for a couple more days—emotions running high and all over the place. Soon enough, though, the rest of it faded, leaving her feeling only hurt.

She got a hold of herself enough to wear a smile and go back to work at the Hanged Man.

Her regulars welcomed her back enthusiastically, though she’d only been gone for three days or so, and neither Corff nor Norah seemed upset by her sudden sabbatical. It did wonders to sooth her, and her smile stopped feeling so forced. 

“You’re starting to look like yourself again,” Norah noticed one afternoon.

Marigold smiled somewhat meekly in response. “Starting to feel like it, a little. Sorry I’ve been so… You know, lately.”

“Don’t you worry about it. I knew this would happen. I told that dwarf to leave you be. You just wait until the next time I see him.”

“I admit, I’ve had some pretty mean-spirited thoughts,” Marigold said, wondering how much Norah knew. She’d never really told her any of it. “But I know he never would have actually meant to hurt me. Not like some of the others I’ve meet here. I really ought to know better than to get involved with the men I meet at work by now.”

“Oh no you don’t, Mare. Don’t go putting it on yourself. And don’t just go and forgive him just like that.”

“I’m not saying I forgive him, exactly,” she corrected—she wasn’t sure she could. “Just that people make mistakes, and people get hurt. We see it in here all the time. I ought to at least hear him out, next time he tries to talk to me.”

Norah snorted. “Right, I’m sure he has a good explanation. He always does, doesn’t he? As long as you don’t mind lies.”

Marigold didn’t have a response to that. Surely Varric wouldn’t lie to her, right? Except he did, all the time, about small things. And, apparently, some pretty big things too. 

Well, next time he came around, she’d just have to demand he tell her the truth of it.

~~~~~

Norah reported that Varric had come by the Hanged Man each night while she was still avoiding it, but he didn’t come around that night. Or the next, or the one after that. He hadn’t tried stopping by her home since the first night.

Well, she’d made it no secret she was avoiding him, with good reason. She should just be happy that he got the message and stopped trying. That she could work in peace without worrying about seeing him again. It was better this way. This whole thing had never made sense, anyway, she knew that. Who’d ever heard of a serving girl and a viscount together? In a non-scandalous way, anyway. He had the right of it, cutting ties.

Why wasn’t he trying to see her again?

She missed him sorely.

She decided to stop neglecting her gardening job about a week later. Because she had a job to do, not because she was hoping to run into him. If she spent extra time on her hair that morning, or wore an especially clean apron, it was only because she was going to Hightown, after all.

In any case, he wasn’t there.

~~~~~

She finished reading ‘The Tale of the Champion’, if only to hear his words, and it was at that point she had to admit to herself that she really must see him again. She wasn’t ready to forget this whole thing had happened without some closure.

She brought the book to the Viscount’s Keep, to his office, during the day. When she got here, however, someone stopped her at his door. “The viscount is unavailable.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “You must be Seneschal Bran! Varric told me you’re very good at prioritizing who gets to see him. Or, well, he said your ‘true calling is arrogantly telling people they can’t talk to the viscount,’ but I knew what he meant.”

She saw a hint of a smile on the man, but his voice remained neutral as he replied, “He’s not here, Marigold.”

She tried not to think of what it meant that Bran knew of her, too. “Will he be back soon? I can wait. I just want to return this—”

“He’s not in _Kirkwall_ , serah,” the seneschal replied gently. 

She blinked. “What? Why not?” Where else would he be?

“That’s classified,” Bran said, raising an eyebrow. Varric had gone away? Without even telling her? When she just started for a moment, trying to think, Bran took pity and added, “He’s been away for just over a week. We are not sure when he will return, at the time being.”

“Okay. Alright. Thank you for telling me, meserre. It was good to meet you.” Before she stepped away, she asked, “Did he, uh, make you Provisional in the meantime?”

“No, serah,” came the answer as he looked at her curiously. 

She nodded, and thanked him again as she left. 

If Bran wasn’t in charge in the interim, Varric must not be planning on being gone very long. Not some years-long adventure, at least. She hoped.

~~~

Marigold took the path to the private part of the Keep on her way to the servant’s entrance. She wanted to talk to Weeds, anyway. When she passed the door to Varric’s study, however, she had a thought.

She tested the doorknob, but it was locked. She nearly jumped out of her skin when a voice called down the hall. “What are you doing?”

She looked up guiltily and saw a familiar blonde elf at the end of the hall, walking towards her. Marigold placed a hand over her thudding heart, the other still holding the book. “Goodness! Orana, you scared me half to bits. Um, I just wanted to leave this for Varric,” she explained, lifting the book. “I was hoping just to set it on his desk, for when he gets back. Do you happen to have a key?”

Orana’s brows furrowed. “No one is supposed to go in there…”

“Oh, it’ll just be real quick. You can watch me the whole time, I promise.” Orana reached her, and still look unconvinced. “You know he would never be cross with you for helping me.”

Marigold felt guilty for trying to coerce the woman, but it was true that Varric wouldn’t punish her—he doted on the elf.

“Alright, but just, quick before anyone sees, okay?”

Marigold nodded and Orana unlocked the door. She went right to the desk, keeping her hands where Orana could watch from the hall. When she went to set the book on the desk, however, she wasn’t sure where to put it. She couldn’t stop her eyes from wandering over the parchment covering every inch of desk space. It looked like crossbow schematics, seemingly far more complicated than she ever would have thought. 

Upgrades for Bianca, no doubt. He doted on that crossbow, too. And not just the wooden Bianca, evidently…

“Mare,” Orana whispered anxiously from the hallway. 

Marigold responded by plopping the book down on the desk, suddenly no longer caring if she wrinkled the papers. She hurried out, and tried to seem sincere as she thanked Orana with a smile before quickly leaving the Keep. She suddenly wanted to be anywhere but there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given the week we've had, I really wish this was a fluffy chapter. Ah well. Let's watch Marigold's mixed feelings escalate instead.


	18. Bianca Davri

Varric waited until the dead of night to find his way to her private forge; she had a hundred apprentices staffed in her new workshop, but she still needed a private area for personal projects. And clandestine meetings. 

He managed to remember the path to her shop, and to avoid the security patrols. He had to pick the locks on her door. The fact that he was able to bypass them at all meant she’d been expecting him. 

“Finally! I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” Bianca exclaimed, looking up as he entered.

It had been a long time since he’d heard that voice. 

“Maybe I got lost. Val Royeaux is a big place.”

“Or maybe you’re avoiding me. You’ve been here before,” she replied, crossing her arms. “What’s going on?”

“Is the fact that the Guild, the Carta, _and_ your family will kill me if we’re seen together not reason enough?”

“It’s never kept you from me before,” she answered. And it was true.

He let out a pained sigh, his eyes roaming the room, lingering on oddly shaped hammers. After all the time he’d had to prepare for this day, he forgot all the words he meant to say. “You were supposed to be done with it by now.”

“I am. Have been for a while.” She went to a small chest and began unlocking a complicated system of locks. The kind he would never get past.

He pinned her with a look. “And you couldn’t have sent a message? You knew I was in town. I don’t have time to wait around; I need to get back to Kirkwall. Someone is waiting for me.”

“And you knew where to find me. Used to be I didn’t have to bribe you just to see you.”

“Things change. We had a deal, Bianca.”

“Please, you didn’t go to the Guild just for me. You want to keep them from weaponizing my inventions just as much as I do.”

“True,” he conceded as she finally got the trunk open. “You can always count on me for that.”

“But not for the rest of it?” she asked as she pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle of machinery. She presented it to him with a “Ta-da.”

“Thank you,” Varric said, trying to take the part from her. She didn’t let go of it.

Both of their hands gripping the item, her voice was low and husky as she leaned in to kiss him. “It’s been too long, Varric…”

He turned his head away, posture stiff. “You’re right. This has been going on too long.”

She seemed to have expected his response, nodding as she pulled away. “So it’s true. After all these years, Varric Tethras is finally breaking his promise.”

Her voice was bitter, but he knew by the way she looked down and away that it wasn’t anger she was feeling. He couldn’t help but appreciate her efforts to hide her tears; he was already struggling against a lifetime of instincts telling him to hold her, comfort her, tell her he didn’t mean it. But he did. 

But old habits die hard. “Bianca…”

She stepped away from him, releasing the piece. “It’s about damn time, Varric. You know I released you from all that years ago.” Softer, she added, “It’s just… After twenty years, I guess I thought this was one thing that would never change.”

“So did I,” he replied, throat constricting around the words.

“Things have been different for a while now, though, haven’t they? You haven’t spent any time alone with me in years. Not since before the Red Templars. You think different of me now, don’t you? Because of my involvement?”

“No. Never,” he reassured her. “You did what you could to make it right. It’s just time. You know it is.”

She nodded again, looking up at him through damp lashes. “I guess I just didn’t realize our last kiss would be the very last one.”

He nodded, confirming that it was, or perhaps agreeing with her. It would be simple enough to give her one last kiss, but he wouldn’t. Not this time. They’d had enough of those.

Still holding the wrapped part in one hand, he pulled the cedar-and-brass Bianca off his back and handed it to the other dwarf.

Bianca took the crossbow, looking small next to the large weapon. For a moment, it was easy to picture the young, inventive girl he once knew and loved, before the threat of a clan war drove them apart.

“Goodbye, Bianca,” he said to them both, at last turning away for good.

She waited until his hand was on the door before speaking. “Oh, and Varric? Whoever she is, I hope she deserves you. More than I ever did.” His feet stilled, but didn’t turn back. “Because if she doesn’t, I’ll feed her her own eyeballs.”


	19. Moving On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know misspelled words can sometimes disrupt the submersion, so I wanted to mention that in this chapter Marigold spells some words wrong (and uses run-on sentences) because I could not justify her spelling being perfect with her education level.

Three weeks had passed, and Marigold was doing okay. Just fine, actually. She no longer felt the need to talk to Varric, if he was ever coming back. It was probably better this way. She’d been let down after being besotted before; she could handle it. She fell back into her routine effortlessly, and she was happy enough. It was as if nothing ever happened.

Almost.

There was still a dull ache in her chest, a constant companion. Easy to ignore most of the time, except late at night, or when things were quiet. It didn’t seem to be lessening with time.

It probably didn’t help that he’d spent so much time where she worked. She missed the timber of his voice rising over the din as he entertained the crowd. She missed the companionship—just knowing he was sitting in the corner somehow made work more enjoyable, even if they barely spoke some nights. She missed having someone she could talk to about things she preferred not everyone know, like the problems with her family. 

She missed her friend.

Oddly, working in his gardens didn’t remind her of him half as much as the Hanged Man did. They were too quiet, though.

Still, she would be okay. This morning she’d hardly thought about him or the ache at all—she was too busy chasing down mice. Every so often, Corff would set out poison for them, and Marigold hated having to clean up their little bodies in the morning. So, whenever she saw a mouse, she’d do her best to convince it to make a home somewhere safer. Most of them probably ended up somewhere else they were unwanted, but she had to try, the poor things.

She was trying to remind herself of this when a particularly devious one bit her hand before scurrying away. “Ow! You little brat! I’m only trying to help!” she called after it, irritated.

It spent most of the morning tormenting her—it was the same mouse, she was sure of it. Mysteriously appearing on trays and under steins and other places mice weren’t normally brave enough to go in the middle of the day. By the fourth time it managed to escape her, she no longer cared if the little demon lived or died. If she had the chance, she’d stomp on him and save Corff the poison.

Somewhere in her frustrated mind, she knew she ought to question that. She’d never done such a malicious thing. Idly, she wondered if she was changing. Everyone always told her she was too cheerful for Kirkwall. Maybe it was bound to happen, sooner or later. She was getting older, after all.

She’d finally found the dangerous dream that would make her miserable, she supposed.

The next time she saw the mouse it was balancing on the rim of a bowl, enjoying the remnants of mystery meat stew that some drunk had left after nursing his hangover. She walked as if making for the other side of the room, not looking directly at the rodent, as if it wasn’t right out in the open, taunting her. At the last possible moment, her hand darted to the side.

She got its tail! She grinned triumphantly at the squirming grey menace before dropping it into an empty cup and covering the top with her hand. The cup was large enough that it wouldn’t be able to reach the top. She hoped the scrambling noises inside meant that she hadn’t injured the thing’s tail. “Got you!” she told it firmly.

It squeaked in response.

Hands firmly gripped around the wooden cup, she marched outside. “You thought you could break me, but you can’t. I’m going to save you whether you want it or not! Whether _I_ want it or not, as the case may be. Because that’s what I do, I help people. Even people who are stubborn and don’t know what’s good for them. Even mice, it seems. And don’t you think I’m just going to let you go right outside just so you can sneak back in tonight, oh no. I’m not going to risk finding you dead in the morning. I’m going to carry you all the way to the abandoned house by the market, where you’ll live a long undisturbed life with all your new rat friends, and I’ll think fondly of you for the rest of my da— _ouch!_ ”

The cup clattered to the street as she dropped it in pain. The cup wasn’t large after all. “You little miscreant!” she shouted after it as it took off. “This doesn’t change anything!” Then she made a whimpering noise as she brought her hand to her mouth, trying to soothe the sting from where it had bit the sensitive web between her thumb and forefinger. She bent to pick up the cup.

As she rose, over the back of her hand, she saw a short man stop in his tracks, a dark crossbow on his back. She felt her eyes widen just a little before she managed to stop them. Her hand slowly dropped from her mouth.

His lips were parted, but he didn’t say anything. Her heart pounded as her body prepared to run—towards him or away, she didn’t know.

She stood her ground. “You’re back,” she said, trying to sound neutral, but she heard the surprise in her own voice.

He nodded. “I am. I managed to cut the trip short.” He looked at her with worried eyes. “Are you alright?”

She couldn’t stop the small, humorless laugh. How could he ask that, as if this was just an everyday conversation? “Yes, actually. I’ve been doing just fine, thank you. I need to get back to work, now.”

She did not ask how he was. He took a step towards her. “I know I’m a bit earlier than expected, but I was hoping we coul—”

“Earlier than expected? How would I know when to expect you back, when you never even told me you were going in the first place!” Her voice sounded strained and cracked. She took a deep breath. She would not cry anymore. Certainly not in front of him.

“I thought I explained everything in that letter I left you.”

What letter? He seemed genuinely confused as well, but… “I never got any letter, Varric. And I can’t trust you when you say you sent one, can I? It could just be another story.”

“She didn’t—? Sweetheart, I...” He took a step towards her. She took a larger step back, clenching her hands around her cup.

“Don’t you ‘Sweetheart’ me. I’ve got to get back to work,” she repeated coldly. “Don’t follow me. You’re no longer welcome in the Hanged Man, Viscount. Corff said he’d have you escorted out if you came back.”

She left him, standing there. She could feel his eyes on her back, but she ignored them. She also felt tears in her eyes, but not her cheeks, and that had to count for something.

~~~~~

Going to see Marigold the moment he disembarked his ship had been a mistake, obviously. Varric hadn’t even thought about it, or planned on it, or even realized where he was headed until he saw her shouting in the middle of the street. The look she’d given him…

It was not the homecoming he might have hoped for. He had only a small timeframe, with not much notice, in which he could safely travel to Val Royeaux without alerting the Guild. When he got word that it was time, he’d had to sail before he managed to find Marigold. He’d explained as well as he could in a letter, and left it with Norah. A letter which, apparently, had never been received.

He was headed to the residential part of his Keep, not his office, but he would have to send for Bran immediately. It was imperative that they set up a memorial fund for Norah’s family right away…

Because he was going to _kill_ her.

Anger spurred him as he made his way to Hightown. He knew Norah still resented him for falling for some of his more fanciful stories, but he never thought she’d do something like this. Did she hate him so much that she’d hurt Marigold just to get to him?

No, more than likely Norah thought she was protecting her, but Marigold was a grown woman—she could think for herself. Who knows what kind of lies Norah had been telling Marigold about him while he was gone?

Or worse—what truths.

Varric sighed, and ran a hand down his face before waving at the guards as he passed through a gateway into the Keep.

It cut him like a knife when she said she didn’t trust him. He deserved it, though, he knew. But weaving tales was part of his roguish charm, wasn’t it? It was how he got people to let their guard down around him. That, and the chest hair. Amusing, lighthearted stories, and never taking himself too seriously. It made him a lot of friends and allies.

He’d never worried about what a few fibs would do to the trust placed in him by an honest person who was more than a friend, though. He honestly never thought it would come up. Both because he never expected to fall for Marigold, and also because he didn’t spend much time with honest people.

He took the path to his office that cut through the gardens, enjoying seeing Marigold’s influence on the place. He wasn’t likely to see much more, at this rate. She made it clear she didn’t want to see him.

He couldn’t believe Corff banned him from the Hanged Man. When had he gotten the nerve to bar the viscount from a public establishment in his own city? Undoubtedly Norah’s doing as well.

He unlocked the door to his office, and set aside his oak-and-copper crossbow. He wasn’t going to give up, obviously. He needed to explain everything to Marigold. All of it, the full and complete truth. If she still didn’t want to see him after that, well… He’s just have to accept it somehow.

How he was going to get a chance to say anything at all when she already decided she didn’t want to hear it, he didn’t know. He wouldn’t force her. Maybe if he gave her more time?

He sat down roughly, and an old sight met his eyes: _The Tale of the Champion_. His heart thudded as he ran a hand over the battered cover. Marigold had returned it. Because she’d been hoping to see him, or because she no longer wanted a reminder of him lying around her home?

He cracked it open. The smell of leather, old parchment, and wood smoke hit his senses. Whether the additional scent of marigolds was real or imaged he couldn’t say. What he did know was that there were far more notes in the margins than before.

Where before there had been only occasional comments or lines of questioning left by the Seeker during the investigation process, now more pages had writing than not. In some places Cassandra’s sloppy, crowded letters, smeared from writing left-handed, were accompanied by Marigold’s slow, heavy, curved words as she debated Cassandra, or agreed with her in turn, as if having a conversation with the absent woman.

Flipping to the beginning of the book, he read the first note:

_Varric, I didn’t want to forget anything I wanted to say this time so I started writting my questions down but there were so many of them and I would forget what made me ask after a while & this book is all marked up already so I hope you don’t mind that I just wrote on the spots I wanted to talk about!_

He smiled at the explanation, not the least bit disappointed by the continued debasing of his book. He spent the next several hours going through everything she had to say. On the page in the beginning left blank by the printers, she circled the gap caused by Cassandra’s wrath and wrote, ‘ _Don’t forget you promised me an explaination!_ ’ It went on to include her own theories, including demonic possession (of the book), a daring swordfight, or just plain drunken high jinks.

Throughout the book she’d written many questions, though some she’d crossed out when she found the answer later on. She chastised him whenever she read about him doing something foolish or dangerous. She cheered him whenever he or Hawke did something heroic. She called him out when she caught him fibbing. She underlined her favorite parts. She had a whole lot to say towards the end, about what Anders had done. Where she’d learned to spell such words, he didn’t know.

She also had much to say about Bartrand leaving them for dead in the Deep Roads. When Varric was forced to kill his own brother, she decided the margins weren’t enough and included a separate parchment stuck between the pages, covered front-to-back in condolences. Some smears seemed to indicate tears falling on the page while the ink was drying.

Every so often the pages held small orange stains that confused him, until he got to the very end and found a pressed marigold; she’d used flowers as bookmarks. He gingerly held up the fragile flower, careful of its paper-thin petals.

Yes, he most certainly wasn’t going to give this treasure up without a fight.

~~~~~

“Goodnight, Corff,” Marigold bid with a wave.

“Wait, Mare, before you go…” The man paused awkwardly as he locked up the downstairs storage room.

“Yes?”

“I just wanted to check how you’re doing. You were quiet today.”

She hesitated, wondering if she should tell him about her earlier encounter with Varric. Corff wouldn’t really kick him out if he came around, would he?

She flashed Corff a reassuring smile, big enough to be seen in the dimness; almost all of the lights had been snuffed. “I’m fine, hon. Just lost in thought, I suppose.”

“Alright,” he replied, unconvinced. “Get some rest. Enjoy your day off.”

She nodded, and stepped quietly out into the night.

She waited just outside until she saw the guard patrol pass, right on schedule. A guardswoman nodded at her in acknowledgement, but they otherwise paid her no mind. When they were a reasonable distance ahead—close enough to hear her shout but far enough that she wasn’t walking _with_ them—Marigold fell in step behind them.

She was still lost in thought, truth be told. She kept telling herself that she didn’t want to listen to Varric’s tall tales anymore, but it wasn’t true. What if he really did have a good explanation and she was just being hard-headed? But then, there weren’t a lot of good reasons for having a secret lover.

When she turned the corner, she saw some light pouring out the window of her family’s home. Not fully lit, but more than just a single candle. Sometimes her papa couldn’t sleep, and would wake up to smoke from a pipe. She would have to chide him for it, of course, but secretly she was happy he was awake. Marigold could use some company. Papa wouldn’t push if she said she didn’t want to talk, he would just choose a topic of his own and quietly go on about his day, or work, or whatever came to mind, with little input from her. It would be accompanied by the occasional pat on her hair, and the comforting smell of pipe smoke.

As expected, her papa was sitting up at the table when she walked in. She stopped short before she’d even closed the door behind her when she realized that Varric was there as well.

The two of them looked up as she entered, conversation paused. Varric slowly climbed to his feet. Papa looked as comfortable as could be, as if he was just sitting with his Wicked Grace partner, and not also the man who’d broken his daughter’s heart.

“Mare-bear, you’re home. Is that any way to treat our guest?”

“What are you doing here, Varric?” she asked, pointedly ignoring Papa.

Nonetheless, it was Papa who answered. “He’s come to talk. I think you’ll be interested in what he has to say. He’s a good man; you ought to hear him out.”

“I know what sort of man he is, Papa.”

“Mar—”

“ _Goodnight_ , Papa.”

“I’ll leave you two to it, then,” he said, as if it was his idea to go to bed just then. In the past he would have put up more of a fight, but these days Marigold’s gardening job was paying off bills and debts alike, which shifted the household dynamic oddly. 

Varric and Marigold stared at each other until Papa had left the room, Varric looking remorseful and Marigold doing her best to keep her face completely neutral. Marigold spoke first. “You brought my family into this? Really?”

He shook his head, saying, “I’m sorry, it wasn’t on purpose. I was just hoping to catch you on your way home and he saw me outside...”

“Well now, waiting for a woman outside in the dark. Nothing worrisome about that, then, is there?”

He sighed as he raked his hand through his hair; she’d never seen it look so disheveled. “I don’t know what else to do. I have to apologize to you for—”

“Alright, you’ve apologized.” She crossed her arms. She would stand her ground if it killed her. “Time to get back to your keep, Varric.”

Norah would be proud.

“Please, Marigold. Just give me chance to talk. Not now, just, think about it. Whenever you’re ready.”

She wanted to answer, but she could already tell that no sound was going to come out. She couldn’t bear the pain in his eyes; she just wanted to hold him and tell him everything was going to be okay. She couldn’t, though, so she turned her head, squeezing her eyes closed.

They stood like that, utterly silent, her eyes closed, for an awkward amount of time. She was sure he would have left if she wasn’t blocking the door.

When she couldn’t stand still another moment, she opened her eyes.

“I’ll be in the gardens tomorrow,” she said, barely above a whisper. She didn’t look at his shaky smile, and ignored his sigh of relief. She stepped aside from the door, and he took the hint.

“Thank you. Goodnight, Marigold.”

She shut the door gently behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're so close to the end! I'm so nervous!


	20. The Honest Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY CRAP the final chapter is up!!
> 
> Thank you so much for everyone who has been following this story, your comments mean everything to me. <3

Marigold went to Varric’s early the next day, or at least early for someone with her schedule. It wasn’t as if she’d be able to focus on anything else, anyway. She was anxious, of course. There was also a hint of eagerness she tried to quell. She wrung her hands the whole walk.

She entered the gardens from the servant’s entrance, and saw Varric pacing anxiously near the fountain. Suddenly, she felt invasive. What right did she have to barge into his home and demand he tell her his secrets?

When he noticed her walking towards him he stopped his pacing, and she saw a grateful smile cross his features. It just served to make her feel worse.

“Listen, Varric, before you say anything...” she tried to start, stopping a reasonable distance away. “You don't have to say anything. It's fine. Well, no, not really, but you don't owe me an explanation, alright? It’s your life, and I don’t need to be a part of it. This whole thing was silly from the start, we never should have... We can just pretend the whole thing never happened. Go our own ways and such.”

He shook his head quickly, like he was scared of her. His voice was desperate, pleading. “I don’t want that. I don’t want to pretend, anymore. So much of my life story is fabricated; this can’t be.”

She swallowed. She took a second to think of the words to say. “I... I'm not interested in less than all of someone. Maybe I’m being fussy for someone in my position, but I just can’t handle someone who doesn't know how they feel, or what they want. I'm too—”

“I love you, Marigold,” he said, simply. “I want to be with you. Only you.”

Her mouth stayed open around the half-formed word on her tongue for a moment, before she thought to close it. She tried to clear her throat of the sudden tightness constricting it. “Oh. That's much clearer, then,” she said dumbly.

He took a step forward. “I'm an idiot. I'm sorry it took me so long to realize it.”

“But what about what the Inq—what your friend said, about…”

“Well, it’s complicated…” He answered slowly. When Marigold huffed and looked away he was quick to add, “I’m not saying that to avoid answering you! I just don’t know how to explain it simply. Keria’s information was out of date. Things with Bianca and I have been ending for a while now, we just never really made it official, I guess. It is, now, though. Over, I mean.”

That’s where he was, then, when he left without saying goodbye? He couldn’t have taken the time to explain things before running off to his secret lover, leaving Marigold in the dark?

She took a deep, shuddering breath, and braced herself, scared to know the answer to her next question. Her voice almost squeaked. “Does it change anything, though? Twenty years is a long time to hold onto... People don't just move on from that, I've seen it before.

“I knew that Bianca—the crossbow, I mean—had to have been named after a real woman. I just hoped that she was a sister who died, or—oh, that sounds awful. I didn't mean that I hoped your sister—I mean, I just thought...” She forced herself to breathe again. “I thought, at worst, I was competing with a lost love one. Maybe a deceased lover that you'd put on a pedestal for two decades. It was going to be hard enough to live in _that_ shadow, but a real, breathing woman?”

She shook her head at the impossibility of it.

“Marigold… It was never a competition. I was holding onto something so long, it was just a habit. I never stopped to question why I still held it in my hand. I didn't realize my hand was empty, or cramping, or... something. Shit. Forget the metaphor.” He stepped towards her, close enough to reach for her hand. “I made a promise when I was young, and I knew I didn't need to keep it any longer, but I didn't see much reason to let it go. It was an excuse to keep myself distant, to keep from getting hurt again. I told myself that I was fine, that things were better that way. And maybe they were, for a while. But I know better, now. You showed me a better way, Marigold; in the way you care for others, your loyalty to your family, your persistent happiness.”

“What about the other Bi—” She gestured to the crossbow leaning against the fountain, and then stopped short. “That's... That's not Bianca.”

“No. Bianca is gone. I don't need her anymore.”

Marigold pulled her hand back and took a timid step toward the new crossbow, running her fingertips along the gleaming wood. The bars looked copper-plated and the stock was stained dark, except for the flowers, marigolds, engraved into the butt.

She pressed a hand to her mouth as tears brimmed her eyes. Unable to bear the silence, she tried to laugh, though it sounded more like a sob. “Well, I hope her name isn't what I think it is; that could get confusing.” She looked up at Varric as he breathed a sigh of relief, and something made her stomach knot with tension. He visited Bianca the Smith, and now... “Where did you get her?”

Varric sighed hard and looked away from her.

Accusative, she pointed to the new crossbow and repeated herself. “Bianca was one of a kind, Varric; you’ve said so yourself only a million times. A freak success by a smith who is now dead, according to your book. So where did you get another crossbow like this? Who made it?”

He was silent for a moment, before meeting her eyes with a defeated look. “It sounds like you know who had to make her, Marigold.”

She dropped her hand, lost. She didn't want to finish this conversation, she just couldn't. She was going to burst into tears any second now. She just wanted to sit down and ignore him and Bianca and the whole world. The lump in her throat was almost too painful to speak past. “Then what's the point, Varric?” she managed, almost at a whisper. “If you're just going to think of her every time you pick up that bow, just like the last one—”

He shook his head desperately. “No. It's not like that, Sweetheart. I assembled this crossbow myself. I had a 'Warden' friend of mine carve the stock by hand, right in front of me. I...” He trailed off, and she watched him struggle for words; a rare sight, for Varric Tethras. “I can't let the secret for manufacturing a weapon like this get out. Not after letting Corypheus and red lyrium into the world, not after I didn’t realize the truth about Blondie and Chuckles until too late... I've done enough damage for one dwarf. More than I could ever hope to atone for.

“To build her, this crossbow, I sent plans all over Thedas. I had five times the parts made than it required, so that if anyone tried to gather all the schematics, they still wouldn’t know how to put it together. I had pieces made incorrectly, and fixed later by someone else. I had some fake parts 'fixed'.” He shook his head. “But the secret, the one piece that no one can see... I'm no smith. Davri is the only one capable of making it that I trust never to sell the secret, not for anything. No one is even supposed to know that _she_ knows.”

“But why do you even _need_ such a weapon, Varric? Wouldn't it be safer if no one had one?”

“There's danger coming around the corner, Marigold,” he said, recapturing her hand as if to emphasize the importance of his words. “I don't know what form it will take. I don't have a clue how to prepare for it. I need to be able to fight—to defend you, your family, my friends. And I'm... Shit, I'm just too damn old to learn a new weapon. I've tried, but this is all I know how to do.”

Marigold looked down to where he held her hand in two of his, taken aback by the fear in his voice. She remembered when she found all those unharmed practice dummies and damaged arrows in the gardens. It was a good explanation.

But then, he always had a good explanation, didn't he?

Perhaps she shouldn’t, but she wanted desperately to believe him. For things to go back to before the Inquisitor had come to Kirkwall.

If she was ever going to forgive him, she had to set her terms. She met his eyes. “I don't mind the stories, and the exaggerations and the like, but I don't want to have to wonder if you're being completely honest with me on the important stuff. I don't think I could live like that.”

He squeezed her hand. “You won't have to. Just give me the chance. I'll be an open book, I promise.”

She doubted it could be as simple as that, of course; changes took time. What mattered to her was that he was willing to try. If he was going to prove himself, she would have to grant him the time to do so.

“Well, I... I suppose I ought to tell you, then.” She smiled gently with lips closed, and brought her other hand to his, still wrapped around hers. “I love you, too.”

He let out a bated breath in a rush, and she caught just a glimpse of a great, big, shaky smile before he pulled her in. She was forced to wrap her arms around his neck as he leaned her back, bowing her over his arm as his other hand buried itself in her hair. His kiss was deep and intense and wonderful, right out of a story book, but what she loved best about it was that she could still feel him smiling.

When he straightened and pulled back, it was only far enough for them to catch their breath, his nose almost touching hers. Smiling softly, he slowly used the pad of this thumb to wipe away the wetness from her eyes.

“I only ever want to see you smile, Marigold.” She laughed, and he grabbed her hand, leading her to a nearby bench. “Come with me. I want to tell you a story—one that I've never told before. It's about a clan war, the Carta, and foolish boy who made a foolish promise a long time ago, before he was sworn to secrecy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reading up on different story telling techniques, and read something that said 'romance stories should end with the ultimate expression of love, usually marriage'. And while that statement is highly arguable, I believe that telling the full, true story of Bianca to someone is Varric's ultimate expression of love.
> 
> As a resident of Solavellan Hell, I came from an OTP where Solas falls desperately for a woman because her spirit is so strong, because she stands out so much. When I sat down to ponder who Varric could finally fall in love with... It seemed like the opposite. Like he doesn't need someone to be unique, strong, legendary. He could fall for anyone with a kind heart that he enjoys being around. A comfortable, easy love. The secret to his love wasn't the headlong rush, it was that it needed to be a love that slowly seeped in past his defenses when he wasn't paying attention. 
> 
> And I really had no idea where I was going with that average Jane Doe, but I'm really happy with how it came together.
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH for reading you guys! This is the first time I've ever finished anything of this magnitude, and it's not perfect by far, but I love it. This has been an absolutely great experience, and I'm so glad I did it. 
> 
> Want more Varigold goodness? You can find some [here](http://redinkofshame.tumblr.com/post/152782572990/tumblr-fic-masterpost), and are always welcome to send me prompts!


End file.
